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solosection) wrote2021-12-31 09:25 am
solosection) wrote2021-12-31 09:25 am
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[ He hangs up, feeling something in his very foundation slipping a little and trying, but probably failing not to show it on his face.
By the way, Elio, Oliver will be here to celebrate Hanukkah with us. His wife and kids, too! What do you say?
Yes, what does he say?
Pocketing his phone slowly, just sort of slipping it down his front pocket and having to shift about in the cream-colored car seat to manage, Elio stares straight ahead. Jean Louis picked him up in Paris with two bodyguards earlier in the day, two bodyguards and a seriously sweet Aston Martin and they've moved steadily down through Southern France ever since, the lavender fields barren and brown in late November - early December. It hasn't snowed yet, Hanukkah's early this year and they might not quite manage snow. Which is fine, isn't it? It snowed the year Oliver told him he was getting married. That she came before.
That there would be no ever after, no after at all, actually.
Elio frowns. Swallows hard and rests his hands in his lap, fingers twitching nervously as he glances out the window, they're passing through some nondescript little French village, the kind of place that probably sells goat cheese, freshly made. They could make a stop somewhere like this, buy some for his parents. Though, with Oliver joining the party, there's going to be presents enough, right? Oh, but for fuck's sake... Oliver doesn't matter anymore, so why does it matter that he'll be there?
After almost fifteen years, this Hanukkah of all Hanukkahs? Fuck. ]
By the way, Elio, Oliver will be here to celebrate Hanukkah with us. His wife and kids, too! What do you say?
Yes, what does he say?
Pocketing his phone slowly, just sort of slipping it down his front pocket and having to shift about in the cream-colored car seat to manage, Elio stares straight ahead. Jean Louis picked him up in Paris with two bodyguards earlier in the day, two bodyguards and a seriously sweet Aston Martin and they've moved steadily down through Southern France ever since, the lavender fields barren and brown in late November - early December. It hasn't snowed yet, Hanukkah's early this year and they might not quite manage snow. Which is fine, isn't it? It snowed the year Oliver told him he was getting married. That she came before.
That there would be no ever after, no after at all, actually.
Elio frowns. Swallows hard and rests his hands in his lap, fingers twitching nervously as he glances out the window, they're passing through some nondescript little French village, the kind of place that probably sells goat cheese, freshly made. They could make a stop somewhere like this, buy some for his parents. Though, with Oliver joining the party, there's going to be presents enough, right? Oh, but for fuck's sake... Oliver doesn't matter anymore, so why does it matter that he'll be there?
After almost fifteen years, this Hanukkah of all Hanukkahs? Fuck. ]
[ They've had a relatively uneventful drive thus far, quiet, easy traffic glide for the most part. He's taken a few calls now and then in the car and they've been quiet together, too, him and Elio, in that particular way they've seemed to cultivate without him knowing exactly how or why. It's nice, though. There's something almost self-evident about it.
Elio's been speaking with his father for a little while, now. Apparently, the old man had something to tell him and judging from his expression as he hangs up, it's problematic. Some sort of news that the other man didn't necessarily want. Jean Louis glances sideways at him a couple of times as they proceed, the silence between them no longer comfortable but strained, tense, Elio's fingers twitching nervously in his lap. He isn't saying anything, however, which is almost proof in itself. It's atypical, he thinks, of how they usually seem to be together - it's new, granted, still and very much unknown ground to him so he doesn't know enough to draw any certain conclusions from the other man's behaviour.
He can guess, though. He's a decent guesser.
Besides, he's seen Elio uncomfortable before but rarely unnerved.
Re-focusing on the road, he gives him another moment, then asks, voice a little brusque: ]
What is it?
Elio's been speaking with his father for a little while, now. Apparently, the old man had something to tell him and judging from his expression as he hangs up, it's problematic. Some sort of news that the other man didn't necessarily want. Jean Louis glances sideways at him a couple of times as they proceed, the silence between them no longer comfortable but strained, tense, Elio's fingers twitching nervously in his lap. He isn't saying anything, however, which is almost proof in itself. It's atypical, he thinks, of how they usually seem to be together - it's new, granted, still and very much unknown ground to him so he doesn't know enough to draw any certain conclusions from the other man's behaviour.
He can guess, though. He's a decent guesser.
Besides, he's seen Elio uncomfortable before but rarely unnerved.
Re-focusing on the road, he gives him another moment, then asks, voice a little brusque: ]
What is it?
[ Of course Jean Louis asks. Even if Elio hadn’t wanted him to, which he does, even if he hadn’t felt ready to share Oliver with him, which he isn’t, he knows how Jean Louis reacts to tension, that need to fix and stabilize and re-establish a bearable status quo. He’s seen it happen more than once now, he can draw his own conclusions, when thinking about his tattoos, the scarring underneath. The huge fish tank, like a built-in sleep mode right in the middle of his bedroom. So he doesn’t try to lie about it, he doesn’t say, it’s nothing or it’s not important. He honors Jean Louis’ rare trust in him. He honors both their nervous systems. ]
An old acquaintance of our family will be joining us for Hanukkah with his family, wife, two boys.
[ That’s the first part of the story, seemingly innocent, but Jean Louis won’t be fooled, Elio knows. If Elio is upset about that, then there’s more to it, right? Than just a family friend. Old doctoral student returning to where it all started, fourteen years ago. Where it all started... Elio licks his lips and breathes out harshly, jaw clenched. This Hanukkah of all Hanukkahs? Couldn’t he get this occasion to himself, at least. Him and Jean Louis. They’re both so new to all of this. Family introductions. Committed relationships. Moving on, moving on, moving on.
Where will he go in that house, when Oliver’s actually there, not to be reminded of him? ]
We were together. Years ago.
[ A bit apologetically, he feels his face fall, glancing sideways at the other man driving the car, trying to convey wordlessly that he is really laying it all out now, bare, naked, because doing anything else would be wrong. Having done that, however, he needs Jean Louis to either connect the dots himself or ask, because Elio has no idea where to start. On the story that should by all accounts be finished, half a lifetime earlier. ]
An old acquaintance of our family will be joining us for Hanukkah with his family, wife, two boys.
[ That’s the first part of the story, seemingly innocent, but Jean Louis won’t be fooled, Elio knows. If Elio is upset about that, then there’s more to it, right? Than just a family friend. Old doctoral student returning to where it all started, fourteen years ago. Where it all started... Elio licks his lips and breathes out harshly, jaw clenched. This Hanukkah of all Hanukkahs? Couldn’t he get this occasion to himself, at least. Him and Jean Louis. They’re both so new to all of this. Family introductions. Committed relationships. Moving on, moving on, moving on.
Where will he go in that house, when Oliver’s actually there, not to be reminded of him? ]
We were together. Years ago.
[ A bit apologetically, he feels his face fall, glancing sideways at the other man driving the car, trying to convey wordlessly that he is really laying it all out now, bare, naked, because doing anything else would be wrong. Having done that, however, he needs Jean Louis to either connect the dots himself or ask, because Elio has no idea where to start. On the story that should by all accounts be finished, half a lifetime earlier. ]
[ Elio tells him - first the easy part, the introduction that doesn't truly mean much and then, after a moment's pause, the rest. Jean Louis' keeps his eyes on the road as he listens, first to Elio's harsh exhalation (unusual) and then, the main story. A much larger one, at that, than Elio's five words but not too large that his few, select sentences can't carry the underlying sentiment through.
What happened, then, years ago?
He's not a stranger to past events that are best forgotten, obviously, and he typically wouldn't pry, seeing as the past is past and you bury it to keep it from bothering you, to keep the ache dulled to a minimum. But now, they're driving straight for it, aren't they, if that man and his family will be there for the duration of their stay. It's like all sorts of violations, this - if you have to re-visit them, you can't do so blindly or at random.
So he simply takes the car through the village and gets them back on the A7. They're only passed Lyon now. They have plenty of time. ]
And what did he do?
[ To you is very much implied - everything in this car right now reeks of tension, the kind that he knows intimately; it's a stench, in a way, and if you know it once in your life by heart, you'll know it forever. He wrinkles his nose a little and leans back in his seat, the engine rumbling. ]
What happened, then, years ago?
He's not a stranger to past events that are best forgotten, obviously, and he typically wouldn't pry, seeing as the past is past and you bury it to keep it from bothering you, to keep the ache dulled to a minimum. But now, they're driving straight for it, aren't they, if that man and his family will be there for the duration of their stay. It's like all sorts of violations, this - if you have to re-visit them, you can't do so blindly or at random.
So he simply takes the car through the village and gets them back on the A7. They're only passed Lyon now. They have plenty of time. ]
And what did he do?
[ To you is very much implied - everything in this car right now reeks of tension, the kind that he knows intimately; it's a stench, in a way, and if you know it once in your life by heart, you'll know it forever. He wrinkles his nose a little and leans back in his seat, the engine rumbling. ]
Edited 2021-12-31 11:22 (UTC)
He... [ ... got married. Elio hesitates, tastes the words on his tongue before speaking them, deciding they don't taste very nice and rephrasing. A shrug of one shoulder, stiff and hindered halfway by the seatbelt. They're heading back for the A7, the car can get to stretch its legs there, its wheels, whatever. Elio likes when Jean Louis drives fast, he's decided, even without a driver's license he feels that boost to his blood, vroom. Childlike glee.
There's a lot of that around Jean Louis. Unspoiled, innocent things.
He clears his throat. ] When my parents were still together, my father used to invite a select doctoral student every year to write their dissertation while staying with us in the summer house, June through August. The year I was 17, it was Oliver.
[ His eyes are firmly fixed on the road disappearing in stretches beneath the helmet of the car. There are next to no bumps, it's a flat stretch of road, well-maintained. Italian roads are different. A lot of things about Italy are - different. Less orderly. You embrace the chaos or your perish. Elio doesn't know whether he didn't perish, back then. A part of him, maybe. His name. Whatever came attached to that. Elio, Elio, Elio.
Oliver, Oliver, Oliver.
Blinking a couple of times, he finally looks to the side, taking in Jean Louis' profile, his characteristic nose, strong jaw, sensitive lips. ]
He was my first. I gave him everything I was and I thought... [ Pause. His voice has grown a little thick, a little too unsteady, unstable. He swallows again, once, twice. ] When he returned the following Hanukkah, he told me he was getting married. That he'd been on and off with this girl long before me. She's the one he's bringing now. Their two children.
[ Oh. Is he sniffling? He's sniffling. Biting his lip, Elio looks out the passenger window again. Not hiding, protecting. ]
There's a lot of that around Jean Louis. Unspoiled, innocent things.
He clears his throat. ] When my parents were still together, my father used to invite a select doctoral student every year to write their dissertation while staying with us in the summer house, June through August. The year I was 17, it was Oliver.
[ His eyes are firmly fixed on the road disappearing in stretches beneath the helmet of the car. There are next to no bumps, it's a flat stretch of road, well-maintained. Italian roads are different. A lot of things about Italy are - different. Less orderly. You embrace the chaos or your perish. Elio doesn't know whether he didn't perish, back then. A part of him, maybe. His name. Whatever came attached to that. Elio, Elio, Elio.
Oliver, Oliver, Oliver.
Blinking a couple of times, he finally looks to the side, taking in Jean Louis' profile, his characteristic nose, strong jaw, sensitive lips. ]
He was my first. I gave him everything I was and I thought... [ Pause. His voice has grown a little thick, a little too unsteady, unstable. He swallows again, once, twice. ] When he returned the following Hanukkah, he told me he was getting married. That he'd been on and off with this girl long before me. She's the one he's bringing now. Their two children.
[ Oh. Is he sniffling? He's sniffling. Biting his lip, Elio looks out the passenger window again. Not hiding, protecting. ]
[ The car glides over the road as the pace picks up, overtaking most of the traffic. The advantages of fast acceleration. Jean Louis listens, his head tilting slightly sideways as Elio starts, then stops - and starts again, unfolding the story a little at a time. His voice sounds rough, like it's on the verge of sticking in his throat all throughout, his gaze fixed forward on the road, until he glances sideways quickly at him, telling him he was my first which in itself isn't that interesting, well, not to him. Lots of firsts in a person's life, right? It's just another beginning.
I gave him everything, says Elio, then, his voice thick with it, unsteady. And that, on the other hand, is interesting - interesting, yes and infuriating. Jean Louis' hand tightens around the wheel, knuckles trembling for a second before he forces himself to relax, the car continuing onwards in its trajectory, its course unaffected. He glances sideways at the other man, who sounds like he might just cry.
It doesn't surprise him. Jean Louis' done worse to other people, though none of them were like Elio, none of them were innocent and unassuming because he doesn't find any value in that kind of mindless destruction. Even so, shit like this often happens on accident, like an unfortunate side-product of something else, something typically selfish and thoughtless. He's well aware. These people - they all waste oxygen the same as any other human on the planet, they walk and talk and fuck and die just the same and the problem is, you can't really argue with that. Pull the trigger when the time is right. Goes for people like him and people like the man who took this part of Elio and treated it so recklessly, too.
Breathing out slowly, evenly, he finally replies, eyes once again fixed on the road: ]
What a fucking fool.
[ He shakes his head. Runs one hand through his hair, agitation making his fingers tremble. ]
He took advantage of you.
I gave him everything, says Elio, then, his voice thick with it, unsteady. And that, on the other hand, is interesting - interesting, yes and infuriating. Jean Louis' hand tightens around the wheel, knuckles trembling for a second before he forces himself to relax, the car continuing onwards in its trajectory, its course unaffected. He glances sideways at the other man, who sounds like he might just cry.
It doesn't surprise him. Jean Louis' done worse to other people, though none of them were like Elio, none of them were innocent and unassuming because he doesn't find any value in that kind of mindless destruction. Even so, shit like this often happens on accident, like an unfortunate side-product of something else, something typically selfish and thoughtless. He's well aware. These people - they all waste oxygen the same as any other human on the planet, they walk and talk and fuck and die just the same and the problem is, you can't really argue with that. Pull the trigger when the time is right. Goes for people like him and people like the man who took this part of Elio and treated it so recklessly, too.
Breathing out slowly, evenly, he finally replies, eyes once again fixed on the road: ]
What a fucking fool.
[ He shakes his head. Runs one hand through his hair, agitation making his fingers tremble. ]
He took advantage of you.
[ He took advantage of you, Jean Louis says. What a fucking fool.
Elio pauses, sniffling again, once, fingers flexing in his lap, while he considers this analysis of the events of that summer. Taking advantage, that’s a harmful thing, not beautiful and passionate and epic in its scope. Just ugly. Taking advantage, that’s not something you do by cutting a man’s egg open for him or fucking a peach, filling it with your cum or calling someone else by your own name. Those were beautiful things. He thinks he’d die if he found out they weren’t. That they were less than that.
Chewing his lip, childishly, he keeps turning every little thing over in his mind. Kissing Oliver at Monet’s Berm. Signing his copy of Armance, year, no name, thinking he’d remember. They haven’t talked in over a decade, does he still remember? Does it still matter to him? And not knowing that, that’s the harmful, ugly thing. That’s the aspect of it that makes Elio think, maybe Jean Louis is right. Maybe Oliver was a fool, and it shouldn’t have to be a weight on Elio’s shoulders. Maybe, if he had this girl in his life before, nothing of this kind should have followed in the first place.
Would Elio do to someone what Oliver did to him, is the question. The fact that he has, on the regular, escaped through windows and disappeared through back doors without a word in goodbye is the answer, isn’t it? To both Jean Louis’ implicit question and his own.
Yes. ]
I’ve grown up thinking what we had was a beautiful friendship.
[ A small huff, not quite a laugh. Elio looks away from the road to follow the lines of Jean Louis’ arms with his eyes. Strong arms. Tense, angry fingers. No one has ever been angry on his behalf before. He’s hardly ever angry on his own. They end by broad shoulders, those arms, muscular neck, Jean Louis’ drawn features.
Difficult to read, like Oliver, except nothing like Oliver. ]
Do you think something can get too nuanced?
[ He means, what is a friendship, even? Can beauty hurt? In how many ways could this be explained away, if he were to try and he has plenty of practice, more than ten years of it. ]
Elio pauses, sniffling again, once, fingers flexing in his lap, while he considers this analysis of the events of that summer. Taking advantage, that’s a harmful thing, not beautiful and passionate and epic in its scope. Just ugly. Taking advantage, that’s not something you do by cutting a man’s egg open for him or fucking a peach, filling it with your cum or calling someone else by your own name. Those were beautiful things. He thinks he’d die if he found out they weren’t. That they were less than that.
Chewing his lip, childishly, he keeps turning every little thing over in his mind. Kissing Oliver at Monet’s Berm. Signing his copy of Armance, year, no name, thinking he’d remember. They haven’t talked in over a decade, does he still remember? Does it still matter to him? And not knowing that, that’s the harmful, ugly thing. That’s the aspect of it that makes Elio think, maybe Jean Louis is right. Maybe Oliver was a fool, and it shouldn’t have to be a weight on Elio’s shoulders. Maybe, if he had this girl in his life before, nothing of this kind should have followed in the first place.
Would Elio do to someone what Oliver did to him, is the question. The fact that he has, on the regular, escaped through windows and disappeared through back doors without a word in goodbye is the answer, isn’t it? To both Jean Louis’ implicit question and his own.
Yes. ]
I’ve grown up thinking what we had was a beautiful friendship.
[ A small huff, not quite a laugh. Elio looks away from the road to follow the lines of Jean Louis’ arms with his eyes. Strong arms. Tense, angry fingers. No one has ever been angry on his behalf before. He’s hardly ever angry on his own. They end by broad shoulders, those arms, muscular neck, Jean Louis’ drawn features.
Difficult to read, like Oliver, except nothing like Oliver. ]
Do you think something can get too nuanced?
[ He means, what is a friendship, even? Can beauty hurt? In how many ways could this be explained away, if he were to try and he has plenty of practice, more than ten years of it. ]
[ He wonders what this Oliver looks like, whether, once he gets a face to go with the name he'll be less or more inclined to finish him off somewhere amongst the shadows. He understands, of course, vividly, how one might end up thinking that all circumstances come with some sorts of silver linings - people around you want to believe that on your behalf, after all, and ultimately on their own. You got through it, at least you got to have something, at least you're in a better place, et cetera, et cetera, like anyone truly wants to settle like that in any case.
You don't want shit like this to happen to you.
That's basically the crux of the matter. ]
Nuances make others feel better about your circumstances. Doesn't change what he did.
[ He overtakes another couple of cars, then starts rummaging around in his pocket for a smoke before thinking better of it - smoking in car on the highway is a fucking dumb idea, even with the Aston's excellent ventilation systems. He feels restless all over. In general, Jean Louis doesn't really... well. This kind of talk. He doesn't have it. He doesn't partake. There's something about the subject matter that sets him off.
But Elio sounds like there's suddenly too little of him, somehow, and he won't have it. He can fucking well deal with his own irritation, here, it's not like it'll kill him. Taking a deep breath, he adds, gaze dark from anger: ]
If spending eight days with him is enough to make you look like that, I'd say whatever you had wasn't worth it.
You don't want shit like this to happen to you.
That's basically the crux of the matter. ]
Nuances make others feel better about your circumstances. Doesn't change what he did.
[ He overtakes another couple of cars, then starts rummaging around in his pocket for a smoke before thinking better of it - smoking in car on the highway is a fucking dumb idea, even with the Aston's excellent ventilation systems. He feels restless all over. In general, Jean Louis doesn't really... well. This kind of talk. He doesn't have it. He doesn't partake. There's something about the subject matter that sets him off.
But Elio sounds like there's suddenly too little of him, somehow, and he won't have it. He can fucking well deal with his own irritation, here, it's not like it'll kill him. Taking a deep breath, he adds, gaze dark from anger: ]
If spending eight days with him is enough to make you look like that, I'd say whatever you had wasn't worth it.
[ Has he ever nursed that thought before? That whatever they had, Oliver and him, wasn’t worth it? Has he ever, even in the deepest, darkest secrecy of his own mind, thought like that?
No, he has never thought it, but he’s felt it. Like he feels it now.
What does he look like, then, that gives him away? Elio pulls down the sun visor and checks his reflection in the mirror. In the gray late fall light, he looks paler than usually, eyes a bit red-rimmed and his irises too bright, his gaze big, but heavy-lidded, so no one would ever call him doe eyed. Oliver once kissed his “bedroom eyes, better than lullabies”. Elio knows how much he can say with just a look, it’s a whole skill set. Right now they aren’t saying much of anything, however.
How often, really, does he look this way because of Oliver? Can even the most beautiful two weeks of your life make up for 500 weeks of this insistent, eroding sense of emptiness?
Bodies for currency.
He looks sideways at Jean Louis again. He gives off a highly tense and agitated air and Elio wants there to be a way where they could cancel out each other’s pain, I carry what you feel and you carry what I feel and in return, neither of us feels a thing, because it isn’t our own shit, right? Doesn’t work that way, their shit is their own responsibility, start to finish. Instead, he thinks, they’re like soldiers in enemy territory and there’s nothing to do except carry each other back. An arm and a leg short. Thinking about the monument in Bordighera, to the lost heroes of World War I, he carefully reaches out, covering Jean Louis’ hand on the steering wheel with his own long, slender fingers. A squeeze.
His smile is thin, he can see it in the mirror on the sun visor, but it’s genuine. ]
Let me spend my time with you instead, then. I’ll look different, promise.
No, he has never thought it, but he’s felt it. Like he feels it now.
What does he look like, then, that gives him away? Elio pulls down the sun visor and checks his reflection in the mirror. In the gray late fall light, he looks paler than usually, eyes a bit red-rimmed and his irises too bright, his gaze big, but heavy-lidded, so no one would ever call him doe eyed. Oliver once kissed his “bedroom eyes, better than lullabies”. Elio knows how much he can say with just a look, it’s a whole skill set. Right now they aren’t saying much of anything, however.
How often, really, does he look this way because of Oliver? Can even the most beautiful two weeks of your life make up for 500 weeks of this insistent, eroding sense of emptiness?
Bodies for currency.
He looks sideways at Jean Louis again. He gives off a highly tense and agitated air and Elio wants there to be a way where they could cancel out each other’s pain, I carry what you feel and you carry what I feel and in return, neither of us feels a thing, because it isn’t our own shit, right? Doesn’t work that way, their shit is their own responsibility, start to finish. Instead, he thinks, they’re like soldiers in enemy territory and there’s nothing to do except carry each other back. An arm and a leg short. Thinking about the monument in Bordighera, to the lost heroes of World War I, he carefully reaches out, covering Jean Louis’ hand on the steering wheel with his own long, slender fingers. A squeeze.
His smile is thin, he can see it in the mirror on the sun visor, but it’s genuine. ]
Let me spend my time with you instead, then. I’ll look different, promise.
[ It takes Elio a while to reply which is fine - even if he hadn't, it would've been no problem. After all, the silence speaks too, between them, the way Elio looks at himself in the sun visor like he can't quite remember what he looks like. Jean Louis can't remember exactly when he realised that the world, as he knew it, was wrong - that to survive, he had to re-learn, to act and to be something very, very different than what he was to begin with. Perhaps it was a gradual transition, really, and not something that just happened.
He glances sideways at Elio and thinks that re-learning is for other people, for people like Jean Louis, like Marcel, like the guys they deal with who've stepped off the grid, willingly and knowingly. Elio, he should've been a perfect fit for the world as it is, the layers that you can perceive without having your eyes gouged out first.
Yet.
His arm shudders at the touch of Elio's fingers, his hand on the steering wheel tightening even further for a fraction of a second before it all just stops, his grip loosening, the tension his muscles falling away. Next to him, Elio, tells him promise, that smile on his face too thin. Warm, but thin.
Frail, he thinks.
Fuck, be careful. ]
I like the way you look.
[ The words are painfully simple, considering the subject matter but he doesn't know what else to say or, more importantly, how to say it. It's too complex for him - not the notion of change, he can deal with that quite well, but the fact that this is Elio, that in his mind, the other man belongs to a simply different class altogether. It shouldn't have happened but it did and that's too odd for his brain to compute so he sticks to simplicity and takes what he's offered in return, his body relaxing markedly. ]
He glances sideways at Elio and thinks that re-learning is for other people, for people like Jean Louis, like Marcel, like the guys they deal with who've stepped off the grid, willingly and knowingly. Elio, he should've been a perfect fit for the world as it is, the layers that you can perceive without having your eyes gouged out first.
Yet.
His arm shudders at the touch of Elio's fingers, his hand on the steering wheel tightening even further for a fraction of a second before it all just stops, his grip loosening, the tension his muscles falling away. Next to him, Elio, tells him promise, that smile on his face too thin. Warm, but thin.
Frail, he thinks.
Fuck, be careful. ]
I like the way you look.
[ The words are painfully simple, considering the subject matter but he doesn't know what else to say or, more importantly, how to say it. It's too complex for him - not the notion of change, he can deal with that quite well, but the fact that this is Elio, that in his mind, the other man belongs to a simply different class altogether. It shouldn't have happened but it did and that's too odd for his brain to compute so he sticks to simplicity and takes what he's offered in return, his body relaxing markedly. ]
[ When Jean Louis replies, Elio is about to withdraw his hand, just one more pat against his knuckles and there we go, but the other man's words make him halt, go into a complete freeze, fingers hanging in the air a few inches from the steering wheel. Jean Louis' hand on it, grabbing it, holding it. I like the way you look, says the other man. Which means...
Elio doesn't have to change for him. He doesn't have to be less, like he should've been with Oliver to make him stay. He doesn't have to be more either, Jean Louis perfectly content with providing for him. A grand piano here, red carpet events there, mind-blowing sex in a back alley on the way from one thing to the other. Elio isn't too little for all that. And he isn't too much either. He loves that, this particular balance he's never been able to strike before. Not with anyone. Not even Oliver. Least of all Oliver.
Slowly letting his hand sink back into his lap, he stares at himself in the mirror in the sun visor for a moment, then flops it back into place, staring at the road where they're always overtaking, always overtaking with Jean Louis, right? He smiles, bigger now, brighter, truer somehow. I'm happy, he wants to say, so simply, no one's made me this happy in years. Or ever, ever, ever.
Instead, without as much as blinking, Elio says, voice soft, warm, borderline casual, but not nonchalant: ]
That's why I love you.
[ Hands resting in his lap for another couple of seconds, Elio doesn't quite know what to do with these words. He knows it's what he wants to say, but can't tell whether it's what Jean Louis wants to hear right now. It's been months, but are months enough? Two weeks weren't. Two weeks were never enough. It feels like they ought to come with an accompaniment of some sort, I love you, trumpets and French horns. Bach, to his brother.
Shaking his head once, Elio leans to the side suddenly, over gearbox and Aston Martin interior, beige hues, and places his left hand on Jean Louis' right shoulder, balancing himself against him, knowing the other man can take his weight. He leans in all the way, pressing a soft, unassuming kiss against the other man's cheek. Cheekbone. Nose pressing against bridge of bigger nose. The exchange takes all of three seconds, probably, then he returns to his seat.
Don't, it means. Don't go. ]
Elio doesn't have to change for him. He doesn't have to be less, like he should've been with Oliver to make him stay. He doesn't have to be more either, Jean Louis perfectly content with providing for him. A grand piano here, red carpet events there, mind-blowing sex in a back alley on the way from one thing to the other. Elio isn't too little for all that. And he isn't too much either. He loves that, this particular balance he's never been able to strike before. Not with anyone. Not even Oliver. Least of all Oliver.
Slowly letting his hand sink back into his lap, he stares at himself in the mirror in the sun visor for a moment, then flops it back into place, staring at the road where they're always overtaking, always overtaking with Jean Louis, right? He smiles, bigger now, brighter, truer somehow. I'm happy, he wants to say, so simply, no one's made me this happy in years. Or ever, ever, ever.
Instead, without as much as blinking, Elio says, voice soft, warm, borderline casual, but not nonchalant: ]
That's why I love you.
[ Hands resting in his lap for another couple of seconds, Elio doesn't quite know what to do with these words. He knows it's what he wants to say, but can't tell whether it's what Jean Louis wants to hear right now. It's been months, but are months enough? Two weeks weren't. Two weeks were never enough. It feels like they ought to come with an accompaniment of some sort, I love you, trumpets and French horns. Bach, to his brother.
Shaking his head once, Elio leans to the side suddenly, over gearbox and Aston Martin interior, beige hues, and places his left hand on Jean Louis' right shoulder, balancing himself against him, knowing the other man can take his weight. He leans in all the way, pressing a soft, unassuming kiss against the other man's cheek. Cheekbone. Nose pressing against bridge of bigger nose. The exchange takes all of three seconds, probably, then he returns to his seat.
Don't, it means. Don't go. ]
[ Elio's hand disappears from his, though he leaves it hanging for a moment in the air between them, like he isn't quite certain what to do with it or how to take it back. Jean Louis, meanwhile, watches the road and thinks about ways he'd kill this so-called Oliver if the chance ever presents itself - it's hard to imagine anything like that, though, for Elio is tied to the other man's circumstances and to Jean Louis', as well. All he gets are cartoonish mental images, like dropping a fucking rock on the bastard from a hundred feet above ground. Probably not feasible. Probably.
It's hard to understand how he went from simply fucking Elio, this man, once for the sake of a quick and dirty one-night-stand to sitting here, sharing breathing space, hating that anyone in the world would hurt him and thinking about how to prevent them from doing so ever again. Lips thinning, he's about to turn on the radio, just to give his mind something to latch onto except the silence between them but then, Elio says...
He blinks.
Blinks.
Stares, unseeingly, at the road whilst the other man just lets that hang there, like it's something you say, like it's something you might even... Breath catching in his throat, he tries desperately to come up with a proper reply that isn't thanks or love you too, both of which would sound absurd, coming from him, like someone trying to speak without a tongue in their mouth. Changing lanes, he doesn't look at Elio, doesn't say anything because he doesn't know -- and then, Elio's in his personal space, leaning in to kiss him briefly on his cheek before sitting back. It's sweet. Unassuming, again.
That's why.
That's.
Clearing his throat, he finally looks at the other man, briefly, before he looks right back out of the window, onto the road. His eyes flicker sideways another three (3) times before he finally just. Shifts. Bends his neck a little and diverts his gaze, something a little like a smile creeping onto his face before he manages to straighten up in his seat again. ]
It's hard to understand how he went from simply fucking Elio, this man, once for the sake of a quick and dirty one-night-stand to sitting here, sharing breathing space, hating that anyone in the world would hurt him and thinking about how to prevent them from doing so ever again. Lips thinning, he's about to turn on the radio, just to give his mind something to latch onto except the silence between them but then, Elio says...
He blinks.
Blinks.
Stares, unseeingly, at the road whilst the other man just lets that hang there, like it's something you say, like it's something you might even... Breath catching in his throat, he tries desperately to come up with a proper reply that isn't thanks or love you too, both of which would sound absurd, coming from him, like someone trying to speak without a tongue in their mouth. Changing lanes, he doesn't look at Elio, doesn't say anything because he doesn't know -- and then, Elio's in his personal space, leaning in to kiss him briefly on his cheek before sitting back. It's sweet. Unassuming, again.
That's why.
That's.
Clearing his throat, he finally looks at the other man, briefly, before he looks right back out of the window, onto the road. His eyes flicker sideways another three (3) times before he finally just. Shifts. Bends his neck a little and diverts his gaze, something a little like a smile creeping onto his face before he manages to straighten up in his seat again. ]
[ Breakfast is nearing its completion, supposedly - excusing himself after about ten minutes to take a call that he's honestly initiated himself by sending Vincent a rather urgent text, Jean Louis' drifting about beneath one of the naked peach trees in the orchard behind the house. He's finished talking to Vincent, seeing as they're both efficient people who'd just as soon waste words as money. Same shit, in their business. Consequently, he should now be returning to the table, except he really is in need of a break from all that family festivitas and he's been here for, what, less than twenty-four hours? Fuck, that bedroom is...
The way the house creaks. The doors that can be locked only symbolically. Elio's ex-lover or whatever, rooming right next to them with his wife. Elio's fucking parents, the homeliness of this place... He shakes his head, his movements fast and erratic. Inhales his second cigarette of the day, smoke pulsing out from between his lips and into the cold winter air.
At least he'd managed to pay Elio back for that comment of his in the car by sucking him off and fingering him throughout for at least fifteen minutes, pulling him back from the edge and prolonging his pleasure for as long as they could both reasonably stand it. Good times. He'd even managed to sleep for a couple of hours afterwards, spending the remaining night awake by Elio's side, watching that fucking door to the hall with narrowed eyes, his chest feeling hollow and strange.
That's why I love you, said Elio yesterday.
It's echoing still, in his mind. ]
The way the house creaks. The doors that can be locked only symbolically. Elio's ex-lover or whatever, rooming right next to them with his wife. Elio's fucking parents, the homeliness of this place... He shakes his head, his movements fast and erratic. Inhales his second cigarette of the day, smoke pulsing out from between his lips and into the cold winter air.
At least he'd managed to pay Elio back for that comment of his in the car by sucking him off and fingering him throughout for at least fifteen minutes, pulling him back from the edge and prolonging his pleasure for as long as they could both reasonably stand it. Good times. He'd even managed to sleep for a couple of hours afterwards, spending the remaining night awake by Elio's side, watching that fucking door to the hall with narrowed eyes, his chest feeling hollow and strange.
That's why I love you, said Elio yesterday.
It's echoing still, in his mind. ]
[ You get used to it, the way nothing much happens on Jean Louis’ face. Still waters, hiding depths underneath and while Elio imagines no you’s actually ever did get used to it and that’s why the other man has such a hard time with taking in any sign of understanding, he kind of likes the way it makes him special. The way it makes their bond special. As he leans back in his seat, the heat of Jean Louis’ skin still clinging to his lips, he simply accepts the silence that follows, how the other man doesn’t tell him love you back, how the notion doesn’t even seem to cross his features. That’s all right. Elio knows it hit home, exactly like he wanted it to, it’s all over the space between them. It’s in the air he breathes, inhaling, exhaling. He’s told someone he loves them. When did that last happen?
Did it ever?
After a second, though, despite himself, Elio still glances aside, catching sight of Jean Louis sort of humbly looking away, inclining his head and smiling, just a small, subtle smile, but happy. He looks happy. Elio had never thought...
They’re both happy.
Feeling his own features light up, his lips curve in a wide smile, almost a laugh and he kind of thumps his head back against the headrest, once, twice, looking out the window where the road and the cars on it are just backdrop, this feeling is front and center. This feeling of loving and being happy loving and it goes both ways, because Jean Louis’ face says it, too. He says it, too, just not in words.
Isn’t he a politician? Don’t they speak in action, anyway?
And they do, because after a moment, Jean Louis straightens up and returns to a mode a little closer to normal, although some things you can’t undo or unsay and neither does any of them try. Elio bites his lip, still smiling and finally leans in to turn the radio on. Some electronic-sounding dance number blares out.
The next fifty kilometers, they don’t speak, no. Not in words. ]
Did it ever?
After a second, though, despite himself, Elio still glances aside, catching sight of Jean Louis sort of humbly looking away, inclining his head and smiling, just a small, subtle smile, but happy. He looks happy. Elio had never thought...
They’re both happy.
Feeling his own features light up, his lips curve in a wide smile, almost a laugh and he kind of thumps his head back against the headrest, once, twice, looking out the window where the road and the cars on it are just backdrop, this feeling is front and center. This feeling of loving and being happy loving and it goes both ways, because Jean Louis’ face says it, too. He says it, too, just not in words.
Isn’t he a politician? Don’t they speak in action, anyway?
And they do, because after a moment, Jean Louis straightens up and returns to a mode a little closer to normal, although some things you can’t undo or unsay and neither does any of them try. Elio bites his lip, still smiling and finally leans in to turn the radio on. Some electronic-sounding dance number blares out.
The next fifty kilometers, they don’t speak, no. Not in words. ]
[ Mafalda is cooking latkes in the kitchen, the smell of them wafting up through the rest of the house. At the breakfast table, his mother is trying to convince his stepfather to eat his oranges, like a child, Miranda cutting in and telling her to let the man take grownup decisions on his own. Oliver's wife, Micol, is focusing all her attention on their two kids, also refusing their oranges, one of them demanding it being made into juice before he'll ingest it, those exact words, Ollie endlessly fascinated by the two older boys and saying the same to their father who just waves him off. Him and Oliver are busy discussing the development of Roman Jewish liturgy in a late post-Republican setting. Elio, for his part, is finishing his soft-boiled egg. It's an only slightly controlled chaos. He doesn't blame Jean Louis for his narrow escape.
Egg finished, he eventually casts a long look out the window, trying to catch sight of the other man somewhere in the gardens, but he's currently out of view. Elio frowns, Ollie yelling across the table for him. Make me juice, El, he says, while Elio gets to his feet slowly, dropping his napkin next to his plate. Three seats over, Oliver follows him with his gaze, his animated debate with Elio's father continuing only at half-speed. Ask your mother, Elio tells the boy and then, excuse me, leaving the table without a backwards glance.
He finds him beneath one of the naked peach trees, heavily smoking and the sheer quietness of the scene is such a contrast to inside that Elio actually breathes a sigh of relief, unsure whether it's due to being away from his family or being together with Jean Louis. He halts next to the other man, watching his lips close tightly around the filter of the smoke, thinking faintly of last night, Jean Louis blowing him in the dark of his old bedroom, fingering him until he literally thought he might die from it and gradually losing any inhibitions he might have had in regards to Oliver lodging right next door. They'd been loud, he knows. Oliver's eyes have been saying as much all morning.
Running one hand slowly up Jean Louis' arm, he greets him by reaching for his cigarette with the other, gently taking it from him and bumming a long inhale, before holding it out to him again and looking around. The garden's a sad sight at this time of year. For some reason, he isn't even eager to show Jean Louis the place during summer. This is fine.
This is enough. ]
You're doing really well.
Egg finished, he eventually casts a long look out the window, trying to catch sight of the other man somewhere in the gardens, but he's currently out of view. Elio frowns, Ollie yelling across the table for him. Make me juice, El, he says, while Elio gets to his feet slowly, dropping his napkin next to his plate. Three seats over, Oliver follows him with his gaze, his animated debate with Elio's father continuing only at half-speed. Ask your mother, Elio tells the boy and then, excuse me, leaving the table without a backwards glance.
He finds him beneath one of the naked peach trees, heavily smoking and the sheer quietness of the scene is such a contrast to inside that Elio actually breathes a sigh of relief, unsure whether it's due to being away from his family or being together with Jean Louis. He halts next to the other man, watching his lips close tightly around the filter of the smoke, thinking faintly of last night, Jean Louis blowing him in the dark of his old bedroom, fingering him until he literally thought he might die from it and gradually losing any inhibitions he might have had in regards to Oliver lodging right next door. They'd been loud, he knows. Oliver's eyes have been saying as much all morning.
Running one hand slowly up Jean Louis' arm, he greets him by reaching for his cigarette with the other, gently taking it from him and bumming a long inhale, before holding it out to him again and looking around. The garden's a sad sight at this time of year. For some reason, he isn't even eager to show Jean Louis the place during summer. This is fine.
This is enough. ]
You're doing really well.
[ Elio joins him after a moment, his footsteps muted in the sandy ground but his presence unmistakable regardless. His system's attuned to him - it's like something starts prickling along his arms, down the length of his spine, something a little softer than usual and no one else has that particular effect on him. Though he never really thinks about Aly anymore, these days he's sometimes reminded of her. It wasn't the same but maybe it could've been, under different circumstances.
Maybe it couldn't.
He shifts only marginally to the side when Elio drifts into his personal space, eyes falling shut as he runs his hand up his arm. The cigarette disappears and he looks up, catching the other man's gaze lazily. Elio's lips look soft around a cigarette, relaxed. They get beautifully wet when they kiss. He takes it from him when he offers it back, propping it back between his own lips, trying to make out what little remnants of Elio's taste might've stuck to it.
At his words, he huffs, smoke trailing out through his nostrils. ]
Your family is interesting.
[ He slips his arm around Elio's waist and pulls him closer, spreading his fingers out a little against his side and hip. Taking up space. His next question isn't posed with any sort of anger or irritation - he might've just as easily asked about the weather: ]
Are they always so loud?
Maybe it couldn't.
He shifts only marginally to the side when Elio drifts into his personal space, eyes falling shut as he runs his hand up his arm. The cigarette disappears and he looks up, catching the other man's gaze lazily. Elio's lips look soft around a cigarette, relaxed. They get beautifully wet when they kiss. He takes it from him when he offers it back, propping it back between his own lips, trying to make out what little remnants of Elio's taste might've stuck to it.
At his words, he huffs, smoke trailing out through his nostrils. ]
Your family is interesting.
[ He slips his arm around Elio's waist and pulls him closer, spreading his fingers out a little against his side and hip. Taking up space. His next question isn't posed with any sort of anger or irritation - he might've just as easily asked about the weather: ]
Are they always so loud?
[ The cigarette passes between them like an external kiss and Elio likes that mental image, the same way he liked it when he was seventeen, maybe he hasn’t matured all that much in the meantime. Maybe he’s still a lot.
Though, maybe he isn’t too much for Jean Louis to handle. That’s the question, supposedly.
And like an answer, Jean Louis pulls him close, up against his body, arm around his waist, fingers spread out over hip and side. A hold. He’s being held. He’s being handled in the most physical sense possible, which is how Jean Louis prefers to do it anyway. Elio smiles at his your family is interesting, because that’s one way to put it, right? Very politician-like and diplomatic. Then follows, are they always so loud which is probably a bit more honest and definitely a bit less diplomatic, even if Jean Louis doesn’t sound annoyed by it. Casual. Neutral.
Elio laughs. ]
They’re many right now. When it was just my parents and me, things were quieter. [ Relatively. A little bit. They had their dinner drudgeries, sure, but just the three of them, they weren’t loud at all.
A moment’s pause as he thinks this observation over. There’s something to be said for that, isn’t there - like a truth has been revealed somehow. ] I think both my parents are loud people, but they couldn’t be loud with each other. After they found other partners, they’ve also found themselves.
Though, maybe he isn’t too much for Jean Louis to handle. That’s the question, supposedly.
And like an answer, Jean Louis pulls him close, up against his body, arm around his waist, fingers spread out over hip and side. A hold. He’s being held. He’s being handled in the most physical sense possible, which is how Jean Louis prefers to do it anyway. Elio smiles at his your family is interesting, because that’s one way to put it, right? Very politician-like and diplomatic. Then follows, are they always so loud which is probably a bit more honest and definitely a bit less diplomatic, even if Jean Louis doesn’t sound annoyed by it. Casual. Neutral.
Elio laughs. ]
They’re many right now. When it was just my parents and me, things were quieter. [ Relatively. A little bit. They had their dinner drudgeries, sure, but just the three of them, they weren’t loud at all.
A moment’s pause as he thinks this observation over. There’s something to be said for that, isn’t there - like a truth has been revealed somehow. ] I think both my parents are loud people, but they couldn’t be loud with each other. After they found other partners, they’ve also found themselves.
[ Elio fits against him perfectly - they're the same height, incidentally, but as opposed to Jean Louis, the other man has a slim built and long-looking limbs and when they stand together like this, he feels perfectly tiny against him, not just a whole, other person but a piece, falling into place.
He takes a heavy drag, then drops the cigarette to the ground. Grinds it out beneath his heel briefly, though he highly doubts it'll set anything on fire in this place. A peach tree, maybe. They look old as hell, though, they've no doubt survived worse than a few embers on the ground. Regardless, he can vividly imagine the hysterics; he's already getting quite enough flak for smoking at all. ]
It's telling, isn't it. Presumably, people would always choose to be as free as possible, to live whichever life they think they need, unhindered. Yet, at the end of the day...
[ He turns towards Elio slightly. Slips his hand up along his back, between his shoulder blades, and runs his fingertips through his curls by the nape of his neck. He tugs them gently, watching how they bounce back towards his head. His voice goes quiet, contemplative, not because of the subject matter but rather owing to how handling Elio's hair is basically prime self-distraction. ]
It's funny, how terrible we are at achieving that particular objective.
He takes a heavy drag, then drops the cigarette to the ground. Grinds it out beneath his heel briefly, though he highly doubts it'll set anything on fire in this place. A peach tree, maybe. They look old as hell, though, they've no doubt survived worse than a few embers on the ground. Regardless, he can vividly imagine the hysterics; he's already getting quite enough flak for smoking at all. ]
It's telling, isn't it. Presumably, people would always choose to be as free as possible, to live whichever life they think they need, unhindered. Yet, at the end of the day...
[ He turns towards Elio slightly. Slips his hand up along his back, between his shoulder blades, and runs his fingertips through his curls by the nape of his neck. He tugs them gently, watching how they bounce back towards his head. His voice goes quiet, contemplative, not because of the subject matter but rather owing to how handling Elio's hair is basically prime self-distraction. ]
It's funny, how terrible we are at achieving that particular objective.
[ Being mostly apolitical, he only votes because he feels he has a duty to, no idea in which direction that duty extends, Elio looks at Jean Louis while he talks, listening carefully, because he always listens for him carefully, down to the way his breath rattles a little what with his lungs full of tar. Still, from a philosophical point of view? It’s interesting that the man leading the most neoliberal party in all of Europe, crusader for free choice for everybody, is at all considering whether people can administer the choice they have. Elio likes that glimpse of humanity. Where the pieces don’t quite fit together. He likes those junctions on everyone, he just loves them a particular lot with Jean Louis.
The other man grinds his cigarette into the ground good and proper, then turns towards Elio slightly to run his hand up his back, between his shoulder blades, tugging slowly at a couple of curls near his nape. It’s meditative, relaxing in a way that seeps into his system, to the core of him, not just the movement, but the quality of Jean Louis’ voice, the depth to his eyes. Like sinking into a natural hot spring, Bormio where his parents took him when he was younger. Day trip. There was a digging site near the place. ]
You have to believe that, Jean Louis - [ Elio shakes his head and turns towards him fully, feeling his arm slide along the small of Elio’s back, over hip, hold on, he thinks, hold on. Leaning in, he presses a soft kiss to the corner of Jean Louis’ mouth, then to his lips, and finally he runs the tip of his tongue teasingly over the jut of them. ] - or you’d be putting yourself out of a job.
[ People who are excellent at governing their own decisions don’t need a government at all. That’s the point. ]
The other man grinds his cigarette into the ground good and proper, then turns towards Elio slightly to run his hand up his back, between his shoulder blades, tugging slowly at a couple of curls near his nape. It’s meditative, relaxing in a way that seeps into his system, to the core of him, not just the movement, but the quality of Jean Louis’ voice, the depth to his eyes. Like sinking into a natural hot spring, Bormio where his parents took him when he was younger. Day trip. There was a digging site near the place. ]
You have to believe that, Jean Louis - [ Elio shakes his head and turns towards him fully, feeling his arm slide along the small of Elio’s back, over hip, hold on, he thinks, hold on. Leaning in, he presses a soft kiss to the corner of Jean Louis’ mouth, then to his lips, and finally he runs the tip of his tongue teasingly over the jut of them. ] - or you’d be putting yourself out of a job.
[ People who are excellent at governing their own decisions don’t need a government at all. That’s the point. ]
[ Elio gets an actual, genuine laugh at that. It's true, isn't it - there's something inherently hypocritical about all forms of government, the paradox that occurs when you want people to be free in certain ways, not in whichever way they prefer - more precisely, there's simply no way to ensure that freedom for all means happiness for all because people make stupid, ridiculous choices simply by virtue of being people. No one, not even the anarchists, go free from this contradiction of human nature.
Jean Louis, naturally, has chosen the approach that gives the better pay-off.
He hums in contentment against Elio's lips, taking his initiative and folding his hand against his hip once again, fingers digging in a little now, holding on more firmly. He lets Elio explore his lips for a few seconds before he steps closer, returning the kiss. Elio's taste is a combination of oranges and salt, his own scent evident underneath and Jean Louis licks at his upper lip greedily before he slips his tongue inside, filling his mouth in one slow, even motion.
Around them, the orchard feels like a silent space, despite the wind rustling through the branches and further across the rooftop. If he strains - which he'd rather not but certain habits are too ingrained - he can make out echoes from Elio's family gathering in the background, several walls away. Outside, however, the noise dissipates quickly into the air. The sky swallows it, somehow. ]
Jean Louis, naturally, has chosen the approach that gives the better pay-off.
He hums in contentment against Elio's lips, taking his initiative and folding his hand against his hip once again, fingers digging in a little now, holding on more firmly. He lets Elio explore his lips for a few seconds before he steps closer, returning the kiss. Elio's taste is a combination of oranges and salt, his own scent evident underneath and Jean Louis licks at his upper lip greedily before he slips his tongue inside, filling his mouth in one slow, even motion.
Around them, the orchard feels like a silent space, despite the wind rustling through the branches and further across the rooftop. If he strains - which he'd rather not but certain habits are too ingrained - he can make out echoes from Elio's family gathering in the background, several walls away. Outside, however, the noise dissipates quickly into the air. The sky swallows it, somehow. ]
[ And because Elio asks, always asking for more, always asking again, Jean Louis told him to himself, the other man responds, tightening his hold on him, pulling him in closer now, accepting his advances and then, takes for himself. Seeing as Jean Louis is actually leader of the most neoliberal party in all of Europe. He knows how to take. Elio loves it, loves the sense of having his mouth filled by him, angling his face to avoid a collision of noses, just a little to the side, there, come here. Elio sucks on his tongue, greedily, because they’re both about profits and outcomes, in each their distinct way, slipping both arms up around his neck and burying his fingers in Jean Louis’ hair, near the back of his skull. Fingertips scraping over scalp.
Part of him, a selfish, childish part, wants Oliver to see them like this, wants to show off exactly how well Jean Louis cares, how someone isn’t busy with his wife and children or his father’s endless rants about Antiquity. How he’s enough for someone, this particular someone, this very important someone. But as he kisses Jean Louis back, breathing harshly through his nose and letting the other man take some of his weight off of him, because he can, Elio realizes that it’s enough that the trees know and the wind knows and it’s enough that the wind will knock on the kitchen windows and if someone listened closely enough, they’d catch the drift.
Like it’s enough knowing that his family, Oliver included somehow, is loud and they won’t hear a thing. ]
Part of him, a selfish, childish part, wants Oliver to see them like this, wants to show off exactly how well Jean Louis cares, how someone isn’t busy with his wife and children or his father’s endless rants about Antiquity. How he’s enough for someone, this particular someone, this very important someone. But as he kisses Jean Louis back, breathing harshly through his nose and letting the other man take some of his weight off of him, because he can, Elio realizes that it’s enough that the trees know and the wind knows and it’s enough that the wind will knock on the kitchen windows and if someone listened closely enough, they’d catch the drift.
Like it’s enough knowing that his family, Oliver included somehow, is loud and they won’t hear a thing. ]
[ It's close to 3 in the morning. The house woke him up, he thinks, about an hour ago - someone crossing between rooms, possibly, the floors creaking in response because they're wooden and old. His first, initial sense of panic has melted quickly into restlessness and that, unfortunately, tends to stick a little better. Consequently, he's still awake. He's had a text exchange with Marcel concerning an African shipment going into Rotterdam in a couple of hours from now - Interpol's been sniffing around at the docks, he's been told from other sources, and the Italians are worried. For no reason, obviously. Whomever's stalking their business had better know how to escape the pull of a working ship engine.
In any case, that's taken care of. So now, he's simply seated by the headboard of the bed, watching the door to the bedroom, the hallway beyond silent and still. Next to him, Elio's still asleep, his breathing slow and rhythmic, his nose buried in his pillow. There's something fragile about the slope of his neck, his curls in disarray around it, his collarbone looking long and thin beneath his skin.
He shifts a little, the sheet pooling in his lap. He'll probably wake him up if he touches him and that would be ridiculous. It's enough by far that he's awake - he's got a gun beneath his pillow, he's well-equipped to handle the shadows around them. All the same, there's a small part of him that he can't quite control around Elio, a persistent urge to be with, to share conscience and to be linked. It's new, still. Dangerous.
He reaches out anyway, tracing two fingertips lightly along Elio's collarbone and across his naked shoulder, feeling the warmth of him. Present, isn't he. Very much so. ]
In any case, that's taken care of. So now, he's simply seated by the headboard of the bed, watching the door to the bedroom, the hallway beyond silent and still. Next to him, Elio's still asleep, his breathing slow and rhythmic, his nose buried in his pillow. There's something fragile about the slope of his neck, his curls in disarray around it, his collarbone looking long and thin beneath his skin.
He shifts a little, the sheet pooling in his lap. He'll probably wake him up if he touches him and that would be ridiculous. It's enough by far that he's awake - he's got a gun beneath his pillow, he's well-equipped to handle the shadows around them. All the same, there's a small part of him that he can't quite control around Elio, a persistent urge to be with, to share conscience and to be linked. It's new, still. Dangerous.
He reaches out anyway, tracing two fingertips lightly along Elio's collarbone and across his naked shoulder, feeling the warmth of him. Present, isn't he. Very much so. ]
[ He was sleeping. He might even have been dreaming, though the details are fuzzy, hard to grasp. Anyway, he's awake now, though Elio can't quite place what woke him up. A feeling. A feeling of not being alone. He remembers being a little kid and fearing that his grandfather's ghost, the man whose name he's bearing, resided in this very room, his old one. He's outgrown any lasting fear of ghosts at this point, but he still searches for some explanation. Why am I awake? What happened? Shifting a bit underneath the weight of his duvet, into the softness of his pillow, Elio blinks, once, twice, then cracks one eye open lazily.
There are fingers stroking along his collarbone, his shoulder. Soft fingers, trying not to disturb while definitely disturbing. Oh. Both eyes open now. It's Jean Louis. Jean Louis is awake, sitting propped up against the headboard and caressing Elio's naked skin, whatever he can reach. Elio slowly frees his arms from the covers, lifts it to Jean Louis' wrist and grabs it, not hard, gently. Holds him. Gently. ]
Don't want to be awake alone?
[ More of a conclusion than a question, really. Groggy-sounding. Elio strokes his thumb over Jean Louis' pulse point, where the skin is thin and easily breakable. Let's him feel the tenderness of his touch, the warmth of him with nothing to subdue it, no other layers, just the two of them.
Suddenly he remembers his dream. It was because Jean Louis was quite literally playing him, mind. He smiles up at the other man, a bit awkwardly. ]
You woke me up from a dream where I was a violin.
There are fingers stroking along his collarbone, his shoulder. Soft fingers, trying not to disturb while definitely disturbing. Oh. Both eyes open now. It's Jean Louis. Jean Louis is awake, sitting propped up against the headboard and caressing Elio's naked skin, whatever he can reach. Elio slowly frees his arms from the covers, lifts it to Jean Louis' wrist and grabs it, not hard, gently. Holds him. Gently. ]
Don't want to be awake alone?
[ More of a conclusion than a question, really. Groggy-sounding. Elio strokes his thumb over Jean Louis' pulse point, where the skin is thin and easily breakable. Let's him feel the tenderness of his touch, the warmth of him with nothing to subdue it, no other layers, just the two of them.
Suddenly he remembers his dream. It was because Jean Louis was quite literally playing him, mind. He smiles up at the other man, a bit awkwardly. ]
You woke me up from a dream where I was a violin.
[ Elio comes awake and Jean Louis follows the stages leading up to it - the rhythm of his breathing, losing some of its depth, the way he shifts beneath the duvet before his eyes open. There's something vulnerable about that as well, that moment before wakefulness. Jean Louis comes awake faster, from one moment to the next. He meets Elio's eyes when he looks up, watching as the other man frees his arms and takes his wrist, holding it gently between his fingers. His movements, in turn, pause.
The question is almost a statement in itself and he doesn't answer, knowing that it isn't necessary. Instead, he shuts his eyes for a moment and breathes slowly, evenly, in time with Elio's thumb stroking over his pulse point. It's... nice. It makes him stop listening to everything else, his focus narrowing down to the two of them once more, on the bed, the outline of Elio's body visible in fragments through the shadows.
When Elio smiles up at him, his heart actually skips a fucking beat. ]
A violin?
[ He frowns, earnestly puzzled. He never remembers his own dreams, though sometimes he wakes up with the feel of them still lodged in his muscles. It feels like he sleeps too little, really, to have dreams of any interesting magnitude.
But Elio would dream something like this. His brain is like that. ]
That must have been a strange experience.
The question is almost a statement in itself and he doesn't answer, knowing that it isn't necessary. Instead, he shuts his eyes for a moment and breathes slowly, evenly, in time with Elio's thumb stroking over his pulse point. It's... nice. It makes him stop listening to everything else, his focus narrowing down to the two of them once more, on the bed, the outline of Elio's body visible in fragments through the shadows.
When Elio smiles up at him, his heart actually skips a fucking beat. ]
A violin?
[ He frowns, earnestly puzzled. He never remembers his own dreams, though sometimes he wakes up with the feel of them still lodged in his muscles. It feels like he sleeps too little, really, to have dreams of any interesting magnitude.
But Elio would dream something like this. His brain is like that. ]
That must have been a strange experience.
[ A strange experience, says Jean Louis and Elio releases his wrist, not to say, no, wrong, but to be able to roll onto his side and look at his profile, disappear a little in it. The characteristic nose, the soft lips, strong jaw that could lift moons and heavenly ceilings. Atlas-like. Elio rests his head in his turned-up palm. His other arm lies parallel to his upper body, fingers flexing lazily against the mattress. The linen is fresh and a little stiff, still, Mafalda changes it every day, four couples worth of it. She’s dedicated if anything, Mafalda.
Jean Louis is dedicated, too. Why else would he ask about violin dreams, it’s such a silly thing, it doesn’t have to mean anything.
But it could.
Elio looks up at him, inclines his head to get a view of all his favorite parts of the other man’s features. It could mean something, it could. ]
It was nice. Someone was playing me.
[ And inching closer, he throws his unoccupied arm over the other man’s midriff, just over the cut of duvet, pulling himself all the way up to him, until he’s kind of wrapped around his body with his own body, Elio’s one leg thrown over his two, arm, side of face pressing in against Jean Louis’ hip, that in itself isn’t the most comfortable spot, but he smells so strongly of himself there. A little bit like crotch and sweat and a whole lot like man.
Elio makes a small noise of contentment. ]
I think it was you.
Jean Louis is dedicated, too. Why else would he ask about violin dreams, it’s such a silly thing, it doesn’t have to mean anything.
But it could.
Elio looks up at him, inclines his head to get a view of all his favorite parts of the other man’s features. It could mean something, it could. ]
It was nice. Someone was playing me.
[ And inching closer, he throws his unoccupied arm over the other man’s midriff, just over the cut of duvet, pulling himself all the way up to him, until he’s kind of wrapped around his body with his own body, Elio’s one leg thrown over his two, arm, side of face pressing in against Jean Louis’ hip, that in itself isn’t the most comfortable spot, but he smells so strongly of himself there. A little bit like crotch and sweat and a whole lot like man.
Elio makes a small noise of contentment. ]
I think it was you.
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