[ Although he doesn’t turn his head to follow Jean Louis with his eyes, keeping up the fish mouthing until the fish in question disappears behind a rock, Elio is acutely aware of every move the other man makes, finding the burgundy bathrobe in his hideaways and shrouding him in it like a king, even if that’s by all definitions Jean Louis’ role. Elio catches it around his shoulders with his hands and pulls it tighter around him, feeling how his skin immediately turns warmer, gratefully. His cock feels tiny in the dark and the chilly draft and Elio shifts from one foot to the other.
When he finally turns his head, Jean Louis has gone back to observing the fish and he speaks, it feels, more to them than to Elio. Elio isn’t going anywhere, that’s the point. The fish are trapped in their transparent prison and just for tonight, or in Jean Louis’ case every night, right, the two of them are as well.
There are seas around Italy not half as blue as this aquarium, Elio thinks, you could be trapped much worse places. You could be trapped alone.
He blinks. Straightens up with a small frown. ]
Do you dream?
[ About what happened, he means. The thing that continues to wrap the other man in darkness, even here, even now. Elio’s eyes follow the intricate pattern of just one of Jean Louis’ tattooed bands. It goes on a long way. ]
[ Elio stays next to him, shrouded in his bathrobe, long and lean and delicate-looking. Jean Louis glances sideways at him, meeting his gaze briefly before the other man speaks, his eyes drifting to follow one of his tattooed bands. He watches Elio watching him for a few seconds before he shrugs, some words on the tip of his tongue that he realises he doesn't want to articulate (it's a long time ago it's nothing much it doesn't matter anymore of course i don't). So he waits another moment, frowning. In front of him, a brightly-yellow fish with a pointed... nose? beak? what is it on a fish anyway? hovers in the water lazily, like it's watching him back.
It's probably just the fish-equivalent of stoned.
If that happens. To fish. ]
I don't know.
[ He's aware of the implications, that Elio isn't asking him a general question but a question related to him, being up right now, looking into his fish tank at the dead of fucking night. Do you dream. He worries his bottom lip with his teeth for a moment before he remembers himself and stops. Instead, he pokes the glass with his finger, watching as the fish startles at the resultant shock waves and swims off in a flurry of bubbles. ]
It feels as if a part of me does.
[ He looks sideways at Elio. It's impossible to explain this - how he wakes up without any active memories in his mind while his body's screaming on multiple sensory levels, pain and darkness and the wrongness of broken bone. His next question is born entirely of curiosity, no reproach and no annoyance audible in his voice: ]
[ He does. Of course he does. Elio thinks it’s probably self-evident, that even if he isn’t completely aware of it, Jean Louis, his body remembers, like Elio can cram a whole Bach repertory into his fingers, going by memory alone for hours and hours. If the other man has gone so far as to feel the need to control who is allowed to see the aftermath of what happened, when he was abducted, it was most likely because he needed that sense of being in charge. Again. He wrapped himself in that whole experience to own it.
When you need control, it’s usually because you’ve lost it, isn’t it? Dreams can be like that, true.
You can lose a lot in dreams. Better to stay awake.
Elio meets Jean Louis’ inquisitive gaze and licks his lips, feeling suddenly parched, like he could drink the whole tank, just tip it back along with his head and empty it. It’s saltwater, though, he’d die from it. Telling Jean Louis the truth, on the other hand, won’t kill him, but he still feels a bit wrong in his body, too big for it somehow. Maybe those are his emotions, too big for the rest of him, too big for Jean Louis’ own bathrobe. This feeling of tenderness and care. Protectiveness, although Elio was never a fighter, he’d fight for this. For him.
He told Jean Louis he loved him, on the way to Bordighera. That wasn’t hard, but it was vulnerable and sometimes those two things are one and the same. So Elio fixes his eyes on the aquarium again, where all Jean Louis’ tapping has scared the fish out of sight, but there are corals and underwater plants and vividly colored stones. Sometimes looking at the things in the background will show you everything you’re actually looking for.
[ Elio takes a while to think and Jean Louis waits, patiently, his mind suddenly attuned to the other man rather than his own body, his thoughts seemingly anchoring themselves. It's a relief and for a moment, he's almost overcome by it - as much as he ever gets, at least. Shoulders sinking down the rest of the way, he lets Elio wonder because no one ever has before, not to him. Not to his face. You have to stop fucking obsessing over it said Vincent all those years ago, using almost exactly the same words as Aly before him, before she'd fully realised that he couldn't quite hear her. Vincent, well, Vincent ended up with a bruised eye, didn't he. A broken eyebrow.
Wasn't quite how he'd planned on ending their relationship.
Now, Elio tells him...
Pause.
He turns more fully towards the other man, his face blank for a second, impassive, before he frowns. Belongs, he says, and it does. He took that experience like he's taken every other experience before it and saved what he needed and wanted, throwing the rest to the side. Though traces still linger, over all he's finished with it. Belongs, though, that also means to be kept.
Presumably, one can keep something and be done with it, all the same.
Particularly if there's someone else around to know about it, to make it all feel less ridiculous. ]
I suppose, in a way, it was gifted to me.
[ He shrugs, then reaches out and folds up the hood on the bathrobe, slipping it up over the back of Elio's head. Like that, his eyes look almost deeper than the darkness around them, the blue light from the fish tank shimmering across his skin. Suddenly, an old memory hits him out of nowhere and he adds, head tilted a little, feeling too light for his body: ]
[ It was gifted to me, Jean Louis says and Elio nods, he understands. Very few things that they own didn't once belong to someone else first, only to be imposed on them, leaving them no choice but to hold it or drop everything, themselves included. Elio dropped himself for a long time, but Jean Louis is very different from him in that regard. Jean Louis carries, others, himself and most importantly, he knows the difference. Elio loves that about him. He loves being someone the other man chooses to carry, even if it involves a lot of wondering, when will it end, when does midnight strike?
About to reach out and touch his hand to Jean Louis' naked shoulder blade where the ribbons are many and bundled, Jean Louis gets there first, turning towards him more fully before reaching out and lightly, soundlessly, breathlessly slipping the hood of the bathrobe up over Elio's head, weighing his curls down by the thick fabric, burgundy on brown. Flat around his head this way, they feel like a second hat and he feels ridiculous, but warm, silly, but loved and the other man's face might not tell him this much, but his actions always do. Always.
And then, truly, does it matter when it ends?
Blinking at Jean Louis' elf comment, taking a moment to process the childishness of it, the naivety and the innocence, Elio finally smiles widely and leans in until their faces are close together, their eyes on perfect level and their breaths passing between them, from one set of lungs to the other. It's like being shown the original design of a vase that was broken long ago. Which means it's precious, it's invaluable. Elio shakes his head, though it doesn't mean no. It means yes. ]
Must mean my kisses are lucky now. Magical. Do you want to try and see?
[ If Jean Louis can be the child he once was, Elio can, too. He doesn't mind, he doesn't mind being the child before Oliver ruined it. Just for a little while. ]
[ Elio leans in and smiles, looking even more like - yes, that's it, some of the scraps in his little sister's collection, full of elves and fairies and glitter that would stick to your fingers. The thought hits something dark and uncomfortable in him and he pushes it aside, his gaze hardening for a split second before Elio tells him my kisses are lucky, looking sweet and hopeful, shaking his head when he means yes and coming across clear and concise regardless.
Do you want and fuck yes, he wants, he wants to stop staring at his corals and his fish and the blue light that seemingly permeates every inch of darkness it touches. He meets Elio's eyes and wets his lips quickly. Then, he slips both hands inside the bathrobe, flattening his palms against Elio's narrow hips before sliding them around to his buttocks. Takes hold, without grabbing, and leans in to kiss him by way of reply. The hood slips a little, a few of his curls bouncing free.
His lips are soft, very. Soft and warm and the scent is him, it makes Jean Louis remember himself better, the here and the now; he runs the tip of his tongue along his bottom lip, giving it a slight nibble with his front teeth before pushing inside. Taking what he's offered, yes, by his Elio-elf and you have to wonder how these things happen, don't you? When he was very little - four, perhaps, or younger still - he used to believe in magic.
At that age, he wouldn't have been surprised at all. ]
[ Elio doesn’t get a reply, not the traditional way, not Jean Louis telling him yes or no, but preferably yes, instead he gets the other man’s big hands, sliding beneath the bathrobe and following the unfeminine curve of his hip bones to his buttocks, enfolding his ass in his hands. Not grabbing, just holding the cheeks of it. Existing in parallel with him. Elio likes this, he likes aiming at the same vanishing point, even for just a brief moment in time sharing a fate.
Muttering something indistinguishable and ultimately as unimportant as it’s self-evident, I’m yours, Jean Louis, please have me, Elio tilts his head a bit to the side, the hood slipping down a curl in the process, and waits for the other man to lick his lips which feels like physical prep in the pit of his abdomen, heat and hardness. Once he kisses him, holding him, holding him, Elio feels him nibble at his bottom lip before penetrating, the slide wet and warm and he opens up to it willingly. The hood slides down another few curls on the way.
A few seconds of Jean Louis leading, taking, filling and Elio pushes his palms flat against his chest, ribbons there, tying them together, slides them up and around his shoulders, around his neck, tightening his own hold back. Jean Louis’ mouth, when Elio takes his turn, wanting to show that he won’t lose to him here, elf of not, he’ll give him everything he’s got, is hot and heavy and their tongues, too, run in parallels. They want the same thing, he thinks. The other, everything about them that can be found between their innermost and their outer skin. Everything.
Elio breathes harder, slips one hand up the back of Jean Louis’ neck before angling himself more to the side, coaxing the other man’s tongue back inside him. ]
[ Elio lets him explore for a moment, his mouth almost searing hot compared to the coolness of his skin. Please have me he said or something similar and it's a rarity, isn't it, taking something willingly offered? Under normal circumstances, he simply makes sure that whatever he wants belongs to him, that he's bought it before he starts caring about having it - from there, you don't have to ask, you don't have to wait to be told yes or no and leave yourself bared and naked in the process.
To begin with, it was the same between the two of them. Bodies as currency, an easy, uncomplicated exchange. Then, months went by and they kept exchanging, kept buying and trading, from what should've been empty pockets. It's sex, after all, it's not a fucking revelation but with Elio, the currency has changed. He doesn't know what to call it anymore. How to count it.
He parts his lips, giving the other man room to explore, their tongues sliding up against each other, pushing in, slipping out. Elio's hands journey over his chest and his skin prickles in response, the nerves of the skin beneath the tattoos different in places, more sensitive here, less there. He groans into the kiss, angling his head a little to mirror Elio who's clearly asking for more, give it please and he does, of course, he'll give him anything. Taking Elio's mouth just a little more roughly now, the mood feels hotter between them, somewhat more urgent and after another long moment, Jean Louis tightens his grip around Elio's buttocks, pulls him closer and lifts him up. Off the ground.
He slides one arm upwards, spreading out his palm between Elio's shoulderblades to keep him balanced against his front and looks up. Like this, the other man towers above him by at least a head. Jean Louis smiles wickedly through the darkness, then starts walking the both of them back to the bed. ]
[ They’re kissing and it’s nice, it’s hot, his body gradually forgetting how it was cold before and flaccid and all but crawling up his scrotum. It isn’t anymore, that’s obvious. Semi-hard and panting, he groans as Jean Louis tightens his fingers around the curve of his buttocks, wanting to push both back and thrust forward at the same time, but he doesn’t get the chance, because the other man lifts him up off the ground, his feet dangling briefly, awkwardly, until Elio laughs and locks his ankles behind Jean Louis’ ass. Thighs gripping his waist, all but climbing him, desperately, desperately adoring. Jean Louis, in turn, grins at him and hoists him up, supports him with one hand to his upper back, the other carrying Elio’s whole weigh into the bedroom, towards the bed. The entire thing makes his blood pound hard. ]
This - [ His voice is hoarse and breathy, full of air and something even softer, love, maybe, no, not maybe. Elio tightens his one arm around the other man’s neck, staying close by the crook of his elbow, the other cradling him by the back of his head, his hair in complete disarray. Jean Louis controls his hair the same way he controls everything else, usually, by way of persuasion. Elio, on the other hand, sets things free. ] - is such a me Tarzan, you Jane moment, you know.
[ He isn’t mocking it, not in any way. He loves it, does Elio, he loves being carried and wanted and played with like he still possesses all that innocence of childhood. Like he’s still that pure.
Like it’s all been scrubbed off of him, right? The rest. Smiling, he leans down and kisses Jean Louis’ forehead once. ]
[ His left shoulder should be bothering him, really, because Elio might be light but he isn't weightless and he's been tense ever since he got out of bed - but as it is, all he can think about is the feel of Elio's arm around his neck, one hand messing up his hair completely beyond all sense and reason and the way he's looking at him. There's something incredibly warm about it. Something not unlike that moment when he'd dropped to his knees in the cold sand on their night trip away from his family's house, looking up at him in a way that made the whole world around them fade into the background.
It's the same, now. It's just the two of them, him and Elio, and the scars beneath his tattoos are relics, just as the look that sometimes steals into the other man's gaze when he's quiet in a certain way, holding an ache that still hurts even with distance and the passing of time. He knows how that goes. They carry it in different ways, sure. They still carry it because once it's been gifted to you, what other fucking choice to you have?
Elio smiles at him and kisses his forehead and it's not chaste, couldn't possibly be, what with the other man's naked cock pressed up against his midriff and his buttocks round and firm between his fingers. But it's something more, too. It's their trade of choice, whatever that is. (that's why) I love you, he'd said in the car and Jean Louis hasn't forgotten. It's another treasure that he keeps, hides, carries, because one day...
Well. He doesn't quite know.
But he keeps it, just in case.
With a low grunt - accidentally emphasising Elio's unfortunate Tarzan-metaphor but oh well, he's been called worse - be bends his knees a little for balance and weight distribution. Muscles tight all over back and shoulders, he drops Elio to the bed with a gentleness that he can't even recognise in himself, sending him sprawling onto the sheets. The bathrobe fans out beneath him, rumpled and just a little too clumsy for his long limbs. Jean Louis looks him over for a short moment, his own body definitely waking up to this dance and when he steps out of his pyjama bottoms and straightens up, he's rock hard.
Gaze dark, he crawls on his hands and knees up the length of Elio's body, movements slow and precise, meaning nobody gets kneed anywhere unfortunate. ]
[ There is more than one way to say I love you, Elio always knew, but he's rarely seen it in action, because he's used to it just being him, yelling I love you's into an abyss that never called back. With Jean Louis, although the words have still to be spoken in return, he's being told in so many other ways that the words begin seeming a bit empty by comparison. Like how he's being dropped gently, so gently onto the mattress, bathrobe fanning out beneath him, an extra layer that catches his weight and takes off for the fall and Elio lets himself sprawl, lets himself be open and receptive, in the end that's what he's good at, that's what his natural inclination says and with Jean Louis, his talents are appreciated more than anywhere else Elio's put them on display. So much that when the other man towers over him, Elio getting up on one elbow, two, pushing his pajamas bottoms down, the other man's hard as rock and Elio's own cock gives a flattered twitch, his breath catching in his throat. Oh. Oh, he's unbelievably beautiful. Elio doesn't care how others would describe him, if they don't get to see him this way, then their votes don't count for anything.
They're null and void.
Laughing, lower, airily, he sinks back down on his back as the other man starts crawling in over him, holding up both arms and kind of greeting him with his hands first, running one over the slope of strong shoulder, the other up the side of his neck, his face, stubble because Jean Louis hasn't shaven yet this morning, fingertips dipping into hair, keeping it out of his eyes. He's elegant on his hands and knees and there's a brief moment where Elio imagines taking him like that, then his imagination shifts squarely back to being taken, instead, because that's what Jean Louis' eyes are saying, as he looks up into them. They're saying mine and give me and they're saying, I love you in the same breath, Elio locking the hand on the other man's shoulder around the nape of his neck, pulling him down against him gently.
Come, it means, come here for me now. ]
You don't expect me to not want you when you look like that, right?
[ His voice is trembling a little bit and Elio turns his face in against the side of Jean Louis', more or less rubbing himself up against his jawline, stubble, rug burn, possibly, but who cares. Breathlessly, he presses a row of kisses along the jut of it, from his chin to his ear, stretching his neck a little bit to catch his earlobe between his teeth and tug at it, once, hard, breathing out against the shell of the ear, feeling how hot and moist it is in contrast, the things he expels. ]
[ Elio holds out his arms and he crawls right into them, exhaling slowly as the other man runs one hand over his shoulder, the other up the side of his face. When Elio makes to pull him down against him, Jean Louis follows willingly, like all the resistance in his body - fundamentally unrelated to the tattoos, really, those came later - is transforming in response. It's such a difficult thing to understand, how something so ingrained can be changed, regardless, and he's never had a mind for these questions, as if there's simply not sufficient room in him to process them meaningfully.
So he just lies down, partially draped across Elio's body though he rests most of his weight on his hip next to the other man. Shivering, he leans into Elio's kisses, his breath hot against his jaw and his ear, feeling that minuscule sting of teeth as he tugs at his earlobe. His cock twitches in appreciation, pressed up between his own abdomen and Elio's hip.
Flattening one hand against the mattress next to Elio's head for balance, he pushes himself up a little, leaning in over him. In Jean Louis' bedroom, the light from the fish tank always breaks the darkness at night and right now, there's a blue shimmer tracking over Elio's body, a few remnants of it lingering across one cheekbone, the lower half of his jaw. Jean Louis is blocking out the rest, of course. The bathrobe looks soft, almost lush, beneath him. There's something about his features that seems otherworldly.
He leans down, then, and mouths a string of kisses along Elio's jaw, slipping down to his neck after a couple of seconds and continuing from there. Every time he exhales, Elio's curls flicker a little in response next to his face and when he breathes in, the other man is everywhere; taste, scent, sight. He finds his pulse point and sucks on it, running his other hand up the opposite side of Elio's face, into his hair. ]
[ The fish tank, or rather the light from it, claims its space in Jean Louis’ bedroom, permeating everything, creeping over their skin and paling them both down to a little less than what they normally are in daylight, Jean Louis’ olive-toned skin and Elio’s white one that only bears a ghost of an Italian tan anymore.
As the other man pushes up on one arm, muscles tensing and flexing and casting their own shadows, Elio tilts his head back, feeling how Jean Louis is like a whole ceiling extending across his head, body, broader than the sky, he’s darkness and eyes that catch the light and shaky breathing against Elio’s jaw as he leans down to kiss him. Again and again and again. Elio leans his head in against him, muttering low, under his breath, can’t not want you when you look like that and curving his fingers a little to drag his fingertips down over the other man’s back, the invisible tattoos, but the tangible outlines of scar tissue. Oh. Ribs. Spine. Against his own hip, Jean Louis’ cock jerks a little, obviously interested, wanting and Elio wants it right back, wants to feel it take up space in him.
Feeling his breathing turn gradually shallow, he leans his head back when Jean Louis sucks at his pulse point, the thin stretch of skin tingling wetly, warmly and his blood singing underneath, Jean Louis’ other hand tugging a little at his hair, a comfortably sharp pull of fingers against scalp. Elio reaches the big scar across one of Jean Louis’ shoulder blades, running his palm flatly over it before tracing it blindly with his fingertips, index, middle, a stroke of thumb.
He carries this as well, his life. You can’t not admire him for that. ]
Please. [ A whisper. That simple. With Jean Louis, asking for anything is that simple. Four pianos. Dinner out. Body. Soul. He presses a kiss to what little he can reach of him, bangs of hair, reaching up with his other hand to push them out of his face. His hand on the other man’s back keeps tracing the scarring there, circular movements, rhythmic. Elio offers him his mouth in the dark, kiss me. ] I want to leave myself on you.
[ It takes him a split-second to realise that Elio is quite purposefully tracing his tattoos. He's used to people doing that, obviously, but mostly in an instinctual, unconscious way; the thing you do when your hand encounters something that you weren't expecting. But it's not like that with Elio and suddenly, he feels quite preoccupied with it, with the sensation of the other man's fingers tracing over the scar tissue along his back. The big one on his shoulder where the hook went through the skin because his abductors were fucking incompetent. He blinks, lips stilling against the side of Elio's neck and for a second, he's pulled backwards to that warehouse in the dead of winter, except his body remains warm and comfortable and painless, it's just the memory itself, nothing more than a fragment of story-telling.
Then, Elio says please and kisses his face somewhere close to his hairline, pushing his bangs out of the way. He looks up at him at his words - I want to leave myself on you - and something about the look in his eyes combined with the consistent tracing of his fingertips against the scar tissue on his back sets his body on fire. Staring at the other man for a couple of seconds, feeling light-headed and completely, helplessly aroused, Jean Louis finally leans down and takes him, pushing his tongue past his lips and filling him up, burying into him.
He thinks about burying into him in a different way and his cock jerks.
With a groan, he breaks the kiss and rolls off to the side. He fumbles for one of the small tubes of lube in the box under the bed - seeing as his bedroom sees quite a bit more action these days than before, he's had to stock up. Though he's out of reach of Elio's fingers, his shoulder, in particular, is still tingling and I want to leave myself on you, he said, well. Hasn't he? Hasn't he? It feels like he's left himself beneath his skin, even, down where nerves and skin and scarring is reduced to little but chemical connections.
Uncomplicated and fundamental.
He drops the lube on the mattress and lies down next to Elio once more, as close as he can get without actively lying on top of him. ]
[ They’re looking at each other for a moment, just looking, Jean Louis’ skin still feeling like softness and heat against Elio’s lips, even at a distance, but then something burns away in the other man’s gaze. It leaves his expression desperate and overheated and Elio takes it, takes it with a whimper as Jean Louis leans down and kisses him, plunging his tongue into his mouth and Elio takes that as well. He pushes his tongue just as greedily back at him, strokes the length of him, thinks of his cock taking his tongue’s place, thinks of being filled. Well, until he isn’t anymore. Being filled. Jean Louis rolls off of him, Elio gasping for breath and nearness once more, body feeling exposed and cold and his cock throbbing between his legs. Contrasts.
He follows him with his eyes, the way the faintly shadowy traces of his tattoos move under the bluish light. Somehow he’s underlined himself, Jean Louis. How beautiful he is.
Then, the other man comes back with lube and Elio feels his cock actually jerk at the implication, he wants him, he wants him inside, he wants to carry him there, carry Jean Louis with him... Where to? It doesn’t matter. Only this moment matters. Everything that lies beyond the bed right now? It’s tomorrow business. Maybe Elio used to wait for a future that would never come, maybe Elio used to dream, but Jean Louis and him care more about today. That’s what the other man has taught him, the most important lesson, yes, that’s what Jean Louis has brought into Elio’s life. The here and the now.
Not that he doesn’t still dream, but you can dream in the present tense.
Case in point.
Sucking in a sharp breath, Elio reaches out for him, runs his fingers through Jean Louis’ hair and down his neck, over one shoulder, back of it, shoulder blade, again. He covers the large scar with his palm. Kisses his jaw, his chin, his lips. ]
[ Elio reaches for him, touching him, hair, neck - and back again, returning to his bad shoulder, the skin there prickling pleasantly in response. Jean Louis angles his face a little as Elio drops kisses along his jawline and lips, feeling so completely comfortable that it seems almost impossible. Has he ever... well.
He can't remember, in any case. ]
Mm.
[ Reluctantly, he pulls away from Elio's mouth and shifts, balancing himself with one arm on the other side of his body. He looks down at him, those pretty long limbs and his smooth skin, and thinks about sinking in. The heat in his abdomen expands. ]
As you are. Just like this.
[ He puts his hand on Elio's chest, right in the middle, and spreads out his fingers. Then, he strokes downwards, over ribs and muscle and skin and rests it against his belly. Elio's cock is hard, pressing against the back of his hand and he could take it between his fingers, easily, get him off and watching him all throughout. He could. They've done it many times before and it never fails to satisfy.
Except tonight, he sort of wants - well, all of it. He wants to feel the other man's body around him and he wants to watch him, too, to take that theme of transformation and send it back to him in whichever little way he can manage.
Without further ado, he sits up next to Elio and reaches for the lube, slicking up his fingers and palm. Once done, he drops the half-empty tube on the mattress and reaches down, fingertips coasting over Elio's cock teasingly, before he slips his hand between his legs instead. He cups Elio's balls briefly, just feeling them out, then runs two, wet fingertips behind them, up between his buttocks. Waiting for him to spread his legs at his own pace and time, Jean Louis bends his neck and seeks out that spot on his neck again, licking at it, teeth scraping over the sensitive skin lightly. ]
[ There's a desperation to them right now, he thinks, as Jean Louis tells him just like this and presses his hand flatly against Elio's chest, not to keep him down, but to raise him up. So as his hand drops lower, over midriff and belly and the back of it presses against Elio's hard cock like a reminder that they could do that, they could do it like they often do, rather than bowing to this urgency in the air, but Elio doesn't want that, he thinks. He wants Jean Louis just like this, too. He wants to be frantic and desperate with him. He wants to long for and have. He's done too much longing without reward.
Groaning, he shifts as Jean Louis sits up and coats his fingers in lube, throwing the half-used tube off to the side before crawling back up against Elio's side, teasing his cock so it aches and then cupping his balls and even before he's asked, nonverbally, for him to spread his legs, Elio has already shifted, spreading wide and open and giving him that view of himself, receptive. Responsive. Wanting.
And as if taking his cue, the other man leans down and finds his neck again, licking at his pulse point, teeth scraping over it and Elio shudders against him, feels his whole body just shiver as if he's got a fever and that's what Jean Louis feels like right now, a fever raging trough his system, fighting back all the things that have settled there throughout time, things which shouldn't have happened but did. They're both like that, Jean Louis and him, they are burdened by other people's wrongdoings and like this, here, now, they don't forget, but they erase.
Elio loves that. He's hard for it. ]
You can. [ It's a murmur into Jean Louis' hair and Elio reaches down between them with one hand, grabs the other man's hand that is pressing in between his buttocks, fingers slippery with lube, and unceremoniously, urgently pushes his fingertips up against his asshole, feels the slide of slick against his rim and makes a keening sound. ] You can, Jean Louis.
[ Elio's shifting beneath him, spreading his legs and inviting him in, though he's already done so, hasn't he, just as he keeps inviting himself - from the beginning of their relationship, really, Elio's stepped inside his personal sphere like he belongs there, so effortlessly, and maybe that's why it hasn't felt wrong. That's the nature of their transaction, he thinks, mouthing against Elio's neck and feeling hungry almost to the point of madness. You can, he says, and pushes at his hand, pushes his fingers up towards his arsehole and Jean Louis exhales harshly against his skin in response, feeling how hot he is. He presses two fingers against the rim of his arsehole, circling it a couple of times, feeling how it flutters against his fingertips. You can says Elio and when did that ever matter before, to hear someone else tell him when it's always been presumed - you can feed yourself, you can tend to yourself, you can survive by yourself.
It matters now.
He pushes inside with two fingers, index and middle, feeling Elio's arsehole opening around him. He gives him the stretch because the other man is clearly dying for it, his hand tight and urgent in his hair, his pulse rabbit-quick beneath his lips. Fuck, but he's hot inside. He works his fingers in past the second knuckle slowly, letting the other man's body do most of the work and following its cues, alternating between pushing in and pausing until he's buried.
Then, he keeps his hand still and lets Elio feel it, his presence there, how he's stretched and open around him. He leans in and kisses him again, not quite as roughly as before, exploring his mouth more slowly. His own cock is so hard that it hurts and when he moves against Elio, it drags against the side of his hip, small sparks of friction shooting through his lower body. He thinks about his fingers, about how tight Elio feels around them. How soft he is inside.
His cock, in turn, gives an excited jerk and really, can't blame it. The promise is too fucking good. His next breath shivering out of him, he parts his fingers slightly and pulls them out, halfway, before pushing back inside. ]
[ More urgency. More desperate need as Jean Louis' fingers circle his asshole, following the rim where the nerves are so responsive and fickle in a way, strong in a multitude of others. Elio is breathing shallowly, clinging to Jean Louis by his hair while the other man works his mouth over his skin, his cock dragging along his hip, wet-tipped and leaking. Only when Jean Louis starts pushing in does he attempt to control every exhalation, letting his body work for him, widening around the girth of the other man's two fingers, penetrating him at a slow, steady, but insisting pace. Meanwhile Elio actively mewls, arching his back and pushing back against the fingers going inside him, his fingers curving nails-first into Jean Louis' skin, his scalp, dragging over the skin there, too. Probably felt. Probably. It's a gradual kind of inward motion, one that only stops to meet his body's natural resistance and just as easily following when he opens up again. Elio loves it, loves the fluidity of it, loves the fullness of Jean Louis in him. ]
I won't break, you won't break me.
[ His voice is shaking, breathy, he has to fight for each syllable, French suddenly coming much less easily to him. Like language itself is a barrier betwen them in this moment, like they understand each other best with their bodies alone.
Once Jean Louis is seated in him to the knuckles, Elio feels himself tremble underneath him, running both hands up to his neck and kind of embracing his face from both sides as they kiss each other again, breathlessly and hungrily and with Jean Louis' two fingers buried in him to the hilt. Oh, he's letting him feel it. He's letting him sit with it for a little while, feeling him, feeling him so close. Tremors are making him pant harshly into the kiss, until he has to forcibly draw back, presenting the other man with his exposed throat as he throws his head back, arching more, more, more. Jean Louis is spreading his fingers a bit, opening him up as he pulls out and the stretch is making Elio feel weirdly light-headed, like he's floating a bit on the sensation. Like they either don't sink in or have gone too far. Either or, either or.
The next inward thrust is wider, takes up more space. Elio's cock is leaking everywhere between them and his eyes feel feverishly bright. He runs his fingers through Jean Louis' hair, wild to his touch. Leaning up as much as he can manage, he licks a broad trail up Jean Louis' neck, too. Pulse point, the beginning of stubble, Adam's apple, so much maleness. ]
[ He's making the sweetest sounds, his Elio-elf, writhing against him and taking his thrusts, telling him he won't break, you won't break me and the words resonate within him (will i will i will i get to keep this will i smash it to pieces it's my fault and now it's broken) until he can't feel any remnants of that dream anywhere in his body. All he can feel is Elio, around his fingers, against his body, beneath his mouth and it's glorious, it's fucking beautiful. When Elio licks the side of his neck, he leans into the touch of his tongue, the wetness of it, working his fingers in and out, feeling the muscle loosen in response. ]
Oh, don't worry. I will.
[ He smiles, pushing his fingers in deep and bending them to catch Elio's prostate, giving it a few, good rubs before he slips his fingers out entirely. He grabs the lube again and squeezes the last of it onto his fingers. ]
On your side.
[ It's not a question. Elio's not the only one who can pose demands. Besides, he's discovered that whilst Elio isn't at all a push-over, he rather likes a firm approach in bed. Personally, Jean Louis isn't very keen on people ordering him about, not in general and not in bed, either, but the other way around is more or less instinctual to him; another thing that came before the rest.
He leans in and kisses the slope of Elio's neck where it transitions into shoulder and collarbone. Then, he runs his other hand down his side, stroking the skin there and waiting for him to get positioned. His cock aches and he's almost loathe to touch it - his hand, after all, isn't at all what he actually wants. Regardless, anal sex without sufficient lube is messy and boring and unattractive, none of which he'd ever willingly burden Elio with so he reaches down and grabs himself roughly near the base, stroking lube onto the shaft and trying not to think about the tightness in his balls.
[ The thing about Jean Louis is that he'll certainly do as he's told, if it suits his own purposes, in his own time, and otherwise you'll have to make a good argument to convince him why he ought to do anything that he isn't naturally inclined towards. Elio likes that about him. It tastes a lot like strength. Feels like it, too, when the other man tells him I will and rather than fucking him harder, hooks his fingers into him and rubs over his prostate. More than once. Multiple times and Elio's vision is blackening near the edges, his breath coming out in heavy pants. Oh, oh. He moans, feels his whole body shake upon impact.
Then, he withdraws, pulling back in order to lube up and Elio lies there for a moment, panting and blinking uselessly against the bluish light filling the room, the shadows of fish moving across the walls in enlargened silhouettes. Eery. Eery and also, somehow sacral. It reminds him of the huge stained glass windows in many churches throughout Paris. It's probably the same in Luxembourg, he just hasn't had a chance to visit, to see. He's had other things to look into. Elio turns his head and watches Jean Louis slick up his cock, looking desperate, still, and impatient and wanting badly.
So, Elio turns onto his side when told to and draws up his top leg, opening himself up naturally, showing off his slick asshole and twisting at the waist to look back at Jean Louis, still working himself, oh, it has to be enough now, it's got to be enough, right? The kiss at the slope of his neck lingers longer, because at this very second, it's all the connect they have. That, and the promise of Elio's lubed up ass, Jean Louis' lubed up cock and those are the parts that are going to fit together. They're going to be like one body, they're going to be that close.
As soon as Jean Louis slips up behind him, Elio reaches backwards and slides his arm around his neck, drawing him as near as possible. It's awkward and a little bit painful, this position, but it doesn't hurt half as much as the emptiness does. The fact that Elio isn't full of him yet. ]
Like this - [ This close. His breathing's erratic and shallow, his voice full of air. Elio looks at every part of Jean Louis' face he can see from here. ] - our skin's just symbolic borderlines.
[ Elio draws him in yet again, the same way he opened his arms earlier, the same way he drew right into his orbit earlier yet and mouthed at his fish. There's something incredibly precious about it, something he wants so badly that he almost can't breathe for it. The other man holds him close, his arm around his neck and he rests his chin against Elio's shoulder and slides up against his back, his cock hard and slick now as it pushes up between his buttocks.
When Elio speaks, his voice sounds like air. ]
You talk like you play. Did you know?
[ It's not truly a question. He's well aware of Elio's artistry, an aspect to his character that Jean Louis could never hope to truly understand or fully appreciate, though he takes what he can from it, takes and tries. It's never been important, artistry, except as a means to buy himself influence, to support and enhance the right people. Doesn't mean he can't understand that it takes a special mind to comprehend these things, the melodies and the visions and whatnot. Good artists are a bit like Olympian sportsmen - admirable, impressive but alien (and more often than not, a waste of his time).
Elio plays the piano sometimes when they're both home. Bach, he thinks, though the name means absolutely nothing to him. He's starting to recognise some of the tunes - melodies - ?? - and when Elio plays them, it's as if his fingers never quite touch the keys. Light. Air.
Angling his hips, Jean Louis buries his face in Elio's curls and breathes him in, deeply and thoroughly. He reaches down and grabs his cock, running the head up between Elio's buttocks and smearing lube over his skin in the process, long, wet trails of it. He groans. Feels the heat of his arsehole against the tip of his cock and presses in, the muscle giving after a few seconds. And then, he sinks inside, inch by inch, and everything is darkness in front of his open eyes, darkness with a touch of Elio's brown hair and the whiteness of his skin. ]
[ Did you know? Jean Louis asks, saying Elio talks like he plays and Elio wants to tell him, yes, he knows, it's the only language in which he's completely fluent, musicality. He speaks it with his hands on the keys and when there are no keys, he's just fingering the air awkwardly, trying to recreate the same meaning. He never quite manages, he knows, but he's doing his best, his utmost, he's reaching desperately with his words. Just like Oliver, but endlessly better, and he isn't thinking about Oliver now, Jean Louis not only understands, but interprets him, too. Translates.
Elio never knew, but apparently he needed a translator.
Feeling the other man slip up behind him, his hard cock leaving trails of lube between his buttocks as he pushes up between them, aiming for his asshole, the slightly puffy rim of it, his hungry insides, Elio tightens his hold on him, feeling how he's burying into his hair, pushing so close that even if it sounds awkward on the ear, no right notes here, Elio still thinks they're defeating all their own barriers. He'd tell Jean Louis this, too, follow up, but the man didn't ask and isn't asking now either as he angles himself for Elio's asshole, minimum prep, the stretch making him gasp, then groan as Jean Louis pushes in, forcefully inserting himself in his ass, pushing in inch by inch, until he's this huge fullness inside him, this sense of girth and block and not alone, not alone, not alone. Elio drops his head forward, pushing back in time, meeting him, meeting it, that feeling of togetherness and space claiming. He listens to his body as Jean Louis sinks in to the base, pausing a couple of times underway when the invasive sensation of getting filled overwhelms him, leaving him trembling slightly, panting, whimpering incoherently.
Although he wants to touch himself, the fingers of his free hand ghosting down across his stomach, Elio doesn't. It would be too much, too many impressions, he wants to savor this, savor this moment, stay in the moment. Don't rush it, don't run from it.
As the other man finally stills, Elio blinking against the shadows, tremors along his shoulders, he hears himself whispering hoarsely, voice a little bit thin, a little bit pleading: ]
[ He can feel Elio pushing back at him, the way he's working with him to accommodate his cock, panting and whimpering as he takes it which makes it all so much better. A different kind of music, you might say, and one Jean Louis understands a lot better if he's honest, it's a language he could speak if he wanted to, if he hadn't unlearned it many years ago. He likes listening to it, though. He basically likes listening to Elio. Breathing out harshly as Elio settles on his cock, his arse warm and completely tight around him, he pulls back only enough to make himself heard. He still gets Elio's hair stuck on his lips when he speaks. ]
I'd rather listen to you, though.
[ He groans and pulls back slowly, not much further than a couple of inches, before he pushes back in. Even this amount of friction makes his head spin and he blinks, forcing himself to hold it together. Then, he repeats the motion, feeling Elio's arsehole give and take around his shaft, the slide growing somewhat easier with each thrust. Pushing himself up on his elbow slightly, he reaches down with his free hand and pushes Elio's leg up by the back of his thigh, just a little. Like that, he opens him further, too, and when he pulls out partially, the angle is perfect for a harder thrust.
So he pushes in, thinking give me more of that sound and he could say it, too, but he thinks he already has. Jean Louis rarely wastes words - it's not that he doesn't have them in spades but in private, he's never been overly talkative and between the two of them, he likes how they don't pretend. They don't lie. His left shoulder gives a slight twinge and he ignores it, fucking Elio at a steady pace now, shallow but forceful thrusts. He's panting a bit himself, his breath making Elio's hair dance in front of his nose. ]
[ As Jean Louis draws back, the tension in Elio's arm, holding him, intensifying and he breathes out harshly, he wants to grab onto him harder, ensure he doesn't disappear, because that's the most experience Elio has with these things, fuck and run, right? Except, they've fucked so many times already and Jean Louis has only ever snuck out that first time and Elio was only bitter about that, because the other man beat him to it. That was then, this is now. Now neither of them run anymore. So he listens for the other man's voice when he mumbles I'd rather listen to you, though into his hair, making his balls draw up a little, it's that hot. Being given a voice. Being listened to. Wasn't that why he became a musician in the first place? A few shallow thrusts follow, until Jean Louis shifts and Elio shifts with him, feeling his hand grab his thigh and push him open by it. He groans, low and keen.
After that, the thrusts get harder, longer, more forceful, forcing him open around the shaft of Jean Louis' cock, taking his length to the hilt, the other man's front slapping against his buttocks at each forward motion, pushing in, taking, filling him. Elio decides to let his honestly weeping cock wait a bit longer, instead running his free hand up to his nipples, pinching one of them lightly just as Jean Louis pushes over his prostate and he whimpers loudly, the double pleasure making stars dance against the backdrop of his closed eyelids. Shaking his head once, panting harshly, he shifts in Jean Louis' hold, feeling his thigh muscles protest a little and not caring even one bit, before forcing himself back over the man's shaft, feeling the head sink into him, pushing over his prostate again.
The whimpering sound leaving his mouth seems to never quite cease at this point.
Pinching his other nipple, too, his whole system feeling overwrought and tense, tingling, Elio finally raises his other hand, too and feels for Jean Louis' head with it, more accidentally than not running his fingers through the man's hair and cradling the back of his head. They're pressed so close together this way, there's no empty spaces left between them. Only the volume of their bodies. Combined.
If there was ever someone who'd deserve to own his name, Elio thinks, Jean Louis is it, isn't he? He's it. His breathing's erratic and desperate, wanting to breathe it out between them, up for grabs. Elio, Elio, Elio. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
solosection) wrote2022-01-04 02:53 pm
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[ Although he doesn’t turn his head to follow Jean Louis with his eyes, keeping up the fish mouthing until the fish in question disappears behind a rock, Elio is acutely aware of every move the other man makes, finding the burgundy bathrobe in his hideaways and shrouding him in it like a king, even if that’s by all definitions Jean Louis’ role. Elio catches it around his shoulders with his hands and pulls it tighter around him, feeling how his skin immediately turns warmer, gratefully. His cock feels tiny in the dark and the chilly draft and Elio shifts from one foot to the other.
When he finally turns his head, Jean Louis has gone back to observing the fish and he speaks, it feels, more to them than to Elio. Elio isn’t going anywhere, that’s the point. The fish are trapped in their transparent prison and just for tonight, or in Jean Louis’ case every night, right, the two of them are as well.
There are seas around Italy not half as blue as this aquarium, Elio thinks, you could be trapped much worse places. You could be trapped alone.
He blinks. Straightens up with a small frown. ]
Do you dream?
[ About what happened, he means. The thing that continues to wrap the other man in darkness, even here, even now. Elio’s eyes follow the intricate pattern of just one of Jean Louis’ tattooed bands. It goes on a long way. ]
no subject
It's probably just the fish-equivalent of stoned.
If that happens. To fish. ]
I don't know.
[ He's aware of the implications, that Elio isn't asking him a general question but a question related to him, being up right now, looking into his fish tank at the dead of fucking night. Do you dream. He worries his bottom lip with his teeth for a moment before he remembers himself and stops. Instead, he pokes the glass with his finger, watching as the fish startles at the resultant shock waves and swims off in a flurry of bubbles. ]
It feels as if a part of me does.
[ He looks sideways at Elio. It's impossible to explain this - how he wakes up without any active memories in his mind while his body's screaming on multiple sensory levels, pain and darkness and the wrongness of broken bone. His next question is born entirely of curiosity, no reproach and no annoyance audible in his voice: ]
Why do you ask?
no subject
When you need control, it’s usually because you’ve lost it, isn’t it? Dreams can be like that, true.
You can lose a lot in dreams. Better to stay awake.
Elio meets Jean Louis’ inquisitive gaze and licks his lips, feeling suddenly parched, like he could drink the whole tank, just tip it back along with his head and empty it. It’s saltwater, though, he’d die from it. Telling Jean Louis the truth, on the other hand, won’t kill him, but he still feels a bit wrong in his body, too big for it somehow. Maybe those are his emotions, too big for the rest of him, too big for Jean Louis’ own bathrobe. This feeling of tenderness and care. Protectiveness, although Elio was never a fighter, he’d fight for this. For him.
He told Jean Louis he loved him, on the way to Bordighera. That wasn’t hard, but it was vulnerable and sometimes those two things are one and the same. So Elio fixes his eyes on the aquarium again, where all Jean Louis’ tapping has scared the fish out of sight, but there are corals and underwater plants and vividly colored stones. Sometimes looking at the things in the background will show you everything you’re actually looking for.
With a smile, small, soft, Elio cocks his head. ]
Because it belongs to you.
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Wasn't quite how he'd planned on ending their relationship.
Now, Elio tells him...
Pause.
He turns more fully towards the other man, his face blank for a second, impassive, before he frowns. Belongs, he says, and it does. He took that experience like he's taken every other experience before it and saved what he needed and wanted, throwing the rest to the side. Though traces still linger, over all he's finished with it. Belongs, though, that also means to be kept.
Presumably, one can keep something and be done with it, all the same.
Particularly if there's someone else around to know about it, to make it all feel less ridiculous. ]
I suppose, in a way, it was gifted to me.
[ He shrugs, then reaches out and folds up the hood on the bathrobe, slipping it up over the back of Elio's head. Like that, his eyes look almost deeper than the darkness around them, the blue light from the fish tank shimmering across his skin. Suddenly, an old memory hits him out of nowhere and he adds, head tilted a little, feeling too light for his body: ]
You look like an elf.
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About to reach out and touch his hand to Jean Louis' naked shoulder blade where the ribbons are many and bundled, Jean Louis gets there first, turning towards him more fully before reaching out and lightly, soundlessly, breathlessly slipping the hood of the bathrobe up over Elio's head, weighing his curls down by the thick fabric, burgundy on brown. Flat around his head this way, they feel like a second hat and he feels ridiculous, but warm, silly, but loved and the other man's face might not tell him this much, but his actions always do. Always.
And then, truly, does it matter when it ends?
Blinking at Jean Louis' elf comment, taking a moment to process the childishness of it, the naivety and the innocence, Elio finally smiles widely and leans in until their faces are close together, their eyes on perfect level and their breaths passing between them, from one set of lungs to the other. It's like being shown the original design of a vase that was broken long ago. Which means it's precious, it's invaluable. Elio shakes his head, though it doesn't mean no. It means yes. ]
Must mean my kisses are lucky now. Magical. Do you want to try and see?
[ If Jean Louis can be the child he once was, Elio can, too. He doesn't mind, he doesn't mind being the child before Oliver ruined it. Just for a little while. ]
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Do you want and fuck yes, he wants, he wants to stop staring at his corals and his fish and the blue light that seemingly permeates every inch of darkness it touches. He meets Elio's eyes and wets his lips quickly. Then, he slips both hands inside the bathrobe, flattening his palms against Elio's narrow hips before sliding them around to his buttocks. Takes hold, without grabbing, and leans in to kiss him by way of reply. The hood slips a little, a few of his curls bouncing free.
His lips are soft, very. Soft and warm and the scent is him, it makes Jean Louis remember himself better, the here and the now; he runs the tip of his tongue along his bottom lip, giving it a slight nibble with his front teeth before pushing inside. Taking what he's offered, yes, by his Elio-elf and you have to wonder how these things happen, don't you? When he was very little - four, perhaps, or younger still - he used to believe in magic.
At that age, he wouldn't have been surprised at all. ]
no subject
Muttering something indistinguishable and ultimately as unimportant as it’s self-evident, I’m yours, Jean Louis, please have me, Elio tilts his head a bit to the side, the hood slipping down a curl in the process, and waits for the other man to lick his lips which feels like physical prep in the pit of his abdomen, heat and hardness. Once he kisses him, holding him, holding him, Elio feels him nibble at his bottom lip before penetrating, the slide wet and warm and he opens up to it willingly. The hood slides down another few curls on the way.
A few seconds of Jean Louis leading, taking, filling and Elio pushes his palms flat against his chest, ribbons there, tying them together, slides them up and around his shoulders, around his neck, tightening his own hold back. Jean Louis’ mouth, when Elio takes his turn, wanting to show that he won’t lose to him here, elf of not, he’ll give him everything he’s got, is hot and heavy and their tongues, too, run in parallels. They want the same thing, he thinks. The other, everything about them that can be found between their innermost and their outer skin. Everything.
Elio breathes harder, slips one hand up the back of Jean Louis’ neck before angling himself more to the side, coaxing the other man’s tongue back inside him. ]
no subject
To begin with, it was the same between the two of them. Bodies as currency, an easy, uncomplicated exchange. Then, months went by and they kept exchanging, kept buying and trading, from what should've been empty pockets. It's sex, after all, it's not a fucking revelation but with Elio, the currency has changed. He doesn't know what to call it anymore. How to count it.
He parts his lips, giving the other man room to explore, their tongues sliding up against each other, pushing in, slipping out. Elio's hands journey over his chest and his skin prickles in response, the nerves of the skin beneath the tattoos different in places, more sensitive here, less there. He groans into the kiss, angling his head a little to mirror Elio who's clearly asking for more, give it please and he does, of course, he'll give him anything. Taking Elio's mouth just a little more roughly now, the mood feels hotter between them, somewhat more urgent and after another long moment, Jean Louis tightens his grip around Elio's buttocks, pulls him closer and lifts him up. Off the ground.
He slides one arm upwards, spreading out his palm between Elio's shoulderblades to keep him balanced against his front and looks up. Like this, the other man towers above him by at least a head. Jean Louis smiles wickedly through the darkness, then starts walking the both of them back to the bed. ]
no subject
This - [ His voice is hoarse and breathy, full of air and something even softer, love, maybe, no, not maybe. Elio tightens his one arm around the other man’s neck, staying close by the crook of his elbow, the other cradling him by the back of his head, his hair in complete disarray. Jean Louis controls his hair the same way he controls everything else, usually, by way of persuasion. Elio, on the other hand, sets things free. ] - is such a me Tarzan, you Jane moment, you know.
[ He isn’t mocking it, not in any way. He loves it, does Elio, he loves being carried and wanted and played with like he still possesses all that innocence of childhood. Like he’s still that pure.
Like it’s all been scrubbed off of him, right? The rest. Smiling, he leans down and kisses Jean Louis’ forehead once. ]
no subject
It's the same, now. It's just the two of them, him and Elio, and the scars beneath his tattoos are relics, just as the look that sometimes steals into the other man's gaze when he's quiet in a certain way, holding an ache that still hurts even with distance and the passing of time. He knows how that goes. They carry it in different ways, sure. They still carry it because once it's been gifted to you, what other fucking choice to you have?
Elio smiles at him and kisses his forehead and it's not chaste, couldn't possibly be, what with the other man's naked cock pressed up against his midriff and his buttocks round and firm between his fingers. But it's something more, too. It's their trade of choice, whatever that is. (that's why) I love you, he'd said in the car and Jean Louis hasn't forgotten. It's another treasure that he keeps, hides, carries, because one day...
Well. He doesn't quite know.
But he keeps it, just in case.
With a low grunt - accidentally emphasising Elio's unfortunate Tarzan-metaphor but oh well, he's been called worse - be bends his knees a little for balance and weight distribution. Muscles tight all over back and shoulders, he drops Elio to the bed with a gentleness that he can't even recognise in himself, sending him sprawling onto the sheets. The bathrobe fans out beneath him, rumpled and just a little too clumsy for his long limbs. Jean Louis looks him over for a short moment, his own body definitely waking up to this dance and when he steps out of his pyjama bottoms and straightens up, he's rock hard.
Gaze dark, he crawls on his hands and knees up the length of Elio's body, movements slow and precise, meaning nobody gets kneed anywhere unfortunate. ]
no subject
They're null and void.
Laughing, lower, airily, he sinks back down on his back as the other man starts crawling in over him, holding up both arms and kind of greeting him with his hands first, running one over the slope of strong shoulder, the other up the side of his neck, his face, stubble because Jean Louis hasn't shaven yet this morning, fingertips dipping into hair, keeping it out of his eyes. He's elegant on his hands and knees and there's a brief moment where Elio imagines taking him like that, then his imagination shifts squarely back to being taken, instead, because that's what Jean Louis' eyes are saying, as he looks up into them. They're saying mine and give me and they're saying, I love you in the same breath, Elio locking the hand on the other man's shoulder around the nape of his neck, pulling him down against him gently.
Come, it means, come here for me now. ]
You don't expect me to not want you when you look like that, right?
[ His voice is trembling a little bit and Elio turns his face in against the side of Jean Louis', more or less rubbing himself up against his jawline, stubble, rug burn, possibly, but who cares. Breathlessly, he presses a row of kisses along the jut of it, from his chin to his ear, stretching his neck a little bit to catch his earlobe between his teeth and tug at it, once, hard, breathing out against the shell of the ear, feeling how hot and moist it is in contrast, the things he expels. ]
no subject
So he just lies down, partially draped across Elio's body though he rests most of his weight on his hip next to the other man. Shivering, he leans into Elio's kisses, his breath hot against his jaw and his ear, feeling that minuscule sting of teeth as he tugs at his earlobe. His cock twitches in appreciation, pressed up between his own abdomen and Elio's hip.
Flattening one hand against the mattress next to Elio's head for balance, he pushes himself up a little, leaning in over him. In Jean Louis' bedroom, the light from the fish tank always breaks the darkness at night and right now, there's a blue shimmer tracking over Elio's body, a few remnants of it lingering across one cheekbone, the lower half of his jaw. Jean Louis is blocking out the rest, of course. The bathrobe looks soft, almost lush, beneath him. There's something about his features that seems otherworldly.
He leans down, then, and mouths a string of kisses along Elio's jaw, slipping down to his neck after a couple of seconds and continuing from there. Every time he exhales, Elio's curls flicker a little in response next to his face and when he breathes in, the other man is everywhere; taste, scent, sight. He finds his pulse point and sucks on it, running his other hand up the opposite side of Elio's face, into his hair. ]
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As the other man pushes up on one arm, muscles tensing and flexing and casting their own shadows, Elio tilts his head back, feeling how Jean Louis is like a whole ceiling extending across his head, body, broader than the sky, he’s darkness and eyes that catch the light and shaky breathing against Elio’s jaw as he leans down to kiss him. Again and again and again. Elio leans his head in against him, muttering low, under his breath, can’t not want you when you look like that and curving his fingers a little to drag his fingertips down over the other man’s back, the invisible tattoos, but the tangible outlines of scar tissue. Oh. Ribs. Spine. Against his own hip, Jean Louis’ cock jerks a little, obviously interested, wanting and Elio wants it right back, wants to feel it take up space in him.
Feeling his breathing turn gradually shallow, he leans his head back when Jean Louis sucks at his pulse point, the thin stretch of skin tingling wetly, warmly and his blood singing underneath, Jean Louis’ other hand tugging a little at his hair, a comfortably sharp pull of fingers against scalp. Elio reaches the big scar across one of Jean Louis’ shoulder blades, running his palm flatly over it before tracing it blindly with his fingertips, index, middle, a stroke of thumb.
He carries this as well, his life. You can’t not admire him for that. ]
Please. [ A whisper. That simple. With Jean Louis, asking for anything is that simple. Four pianos. Dinner out. Body. Soul. He presses a kiss to what little he can reach of him, bangs of hair, reaching up with his other hand to push them out of his face. His hand on the other man’s back keeps tracing the scarring there, circular movements, rhythmic. Elio offers him his mouth in the dark, kiss me. ] I want to leave myself on you.
no subject
Then, Elio says please and kisses his face somewhere close to his hairline, pushing his bangs out of the way. He looks up at him at his words - I want to leave myself on you - and something about the look in his eyes combined with the consistent tracing of his fingertips against the scar tissue on his back sets his body on fire. Staring at the other man for a couple of seconds, feeling light-headed and completely, helplessly aroused, Jean Louis finally leans down and takes him, pushing his tongue past his lips and filling him up, burying into him.
He thinks about burying into him in a different way and his cock jerks.
With a groan, he breaks the kiss and rolls off to the side. He fumbles for one of the small tubes of lube in the box under the bed - seeing as his bedroom sees quite a bit more action these days than before, he's had to stock up. Though he's out of reach of Elio's fingers, his shoulder, in particular, is still tingling and I want to leave myself on you, he said, well. Hasn't he? Hasn't he? It feels like he's left himself beneath his skin, even, down where nerves and skin and scarring is reduced to little but chemical connections.
Uncomplicated and fundamental.
He drops the lube on the mattress and lies down next to Elio once more, as close as he can get without actively lying on top of him. ]
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He follows him with his eyes, the way the faintly shadowy traces of his tattoos move under the bluish light. Somehow he’s underlined himself, Jean Louis. How beautiful he is.
Then, the other man comes back with lube and Elio feels his cock actually jerk at the implication, he wants him, he wants him inside, he wants to carry him there, carry Jean Louis with him... Where to? It doesn’t matter. Only this moment matters. Everything that lies beyond the bed right now? It’s tomorrow business. Maybe Elio used to wait for a future that would never come, maybe Elio used to dream, but Jean Louis and him care more about today. That’s what the other man has taught him, the most important lesson, yes, that’s what Jean Louis has brought into Elio’s life. The here and the now.
Not that he doesn’t still dream, but you can dream in the present tense.
Case in point.
Sucking in a sharp breath, Elio reaches out for him, runs his fingers through Jean Louis’ hair and down his neck, over one shoulder, back of it, shoulder blade, again. He covers the large scar with his palm. Kisses his jaw, his chin, his lips. ]
How do you want me?
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He can't remember, in any case. ]
Mm.
[ Reluctantly, he pulls away from Elio's mouth and shifts, balancing himself with one arm on the other side of his body. He looks down at him, those pretty long limbs and his smooth skin, and thinks about sinking in. The heat in his abdomen expands. ]
As you are. Just like this.
[ He puts his hand on Elio's chest, right in the middle, and spreads out his fingers. Then, he strokes downwards, over ribs and muscle and skin and rests it against his belly. Elio's cock is hard, pressing against the back of his hand and he could take it between his fingers, easily, get him off and watching him all throughout. He could. They've done it many times before and it never fails to satisfy.
Except tonight, he sort of wants - well, all of it. He wants to feel the other man's body around him and he wants to watch him, too, to take that theme of transformation and send it back to him in whichever little way he can manage.
Without further ado, he sits up next to Elio and reaches for the lube, slicking up his fingers and palm. Once done, he drops the half-empty tube on the mattress and reaches down, fingertips coasting over Elio's cock teasingly, before he slips his hand between his legs instead. He cups Elio's balls briefly, just feeling them out, then runs two, wet fingertips behind them, up between his buttocks. Waiting for him to spread his legs at his own pace and time, Jean Louis bends his neck and seeks out that spot on his neck again, licking at it, teeth scraping over the sensitive skin lightly. ]
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Groaning, he shifts as Jean Louis sits up and coats his fingers in lube, throwing the half-used tube off to the side before crawling back up against Elio's side, teasing his cock so it aches and then cupping his balls and even before he's asked, nonverbally, for him to spread his legs, Elio has already shifted, spreading wide and open and giving him that view of himself, receptive. Responsive. Wanting.
And as if taking his cue, the other man leans down and finds his neck again, licking at his pulse point, teeth scraping over it and Elio shudders against him, feels his whole body just shiver as if he's got a fever and that's what Jean Louis feels like right now, a fever raging trough his system, fighting back all the things that have settled there throughout time, things which shouldn't have happened but did. They're both like that, Jean Louis and him, they are burdened by other people's wrongdoings and like this, here, now, they don't forget, but they erase.
Elio loves that. He's hard for it. ]
You can. [ It's a murmur into Jean Louis' hair and Elio reaches down between them with one hand, grabs the other man's hand that is pressing in between his buttocks, fingers slippery with lube, and unceremoniously, urgently pushes his fingertips up against his asshole, feels the slide of slick against his rim and makes a keening sound. ] You can, Jean Louis.
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It matters now.
He pushes inside with two fingers, index and middle, feeling Elio's arsehole opening around him. He gives him the stretch because the other man is clearly dying for it, his hand tight and urgent in his hair, his pulse rabbit-quick beneath his lips. Fuck, but he's hot inside. He works his fingers in past the second knuckle slowly, letting the other man's body do most of the work and following its cues, alternating between pushing in and pausing until he's buried.
Then, he keeps his hand still and lets Elio feel it, his presence there, how he's stretched and open around him. He leans in and kisses him again, not quite as roughly as before, exploring his mouth more slowly. His own cock is so hard that it hurts and when he moves against Elio, it drags against the side of his hip, small sparks of friction shooting through his lower body. He thinks about his fingers, about how tight Elio feels around them. How soft he is inside.
His cock, in turn, gives an excited jerk and really, can't blame it. The promise is too fucking good. His next breath shivering out of him, he parts his fingers slightly and pulls them out, halfway, before pushing back inside. ]
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I won't break, you won't break me.
[ His voice is shaking, breathy, he has to fight for each syllable, French suddenly coming much less easily to him. Like language itself is a barrier betwen them in this moment, like they understand each other best with their bodies alone.
Once Jean Louis is seated in him to the knuckles, Elio feels himself tremble underneath him, running both hands up to his neck and kind of embracing his face from both sides as they kiss each other again, breathlessly and hungrily and with Jean Louis' two fingers buried in him to the hilt. Oh, he's letting him feel it. He's letting him sit with it for a little while, feeling him, feeling him so close. Tremors are making him pant harshly into the kiss, until he has to forcibly draw back, presenting the other man with his exposed throat as he throws his head back, arching more, more, more. Jean Louis is spreading his fingers a bit, opening him up as he pulls out and the stretch is making Elio feel weirdly light-headed, like he's floating a bit on the sensation. Like they either don't sink in or have gone too far. Either or, either or.
The next inward thrust is wider, takes up more space. Elio's cock is leaking everywhere between them and his eyes feel feverishly bright. He runs his fingers through Jean Louis' hair, wild to his touch. Leaning up as much as he can manage, he licks a broad trail up Jean Louis' neck, too. Pulse point, the beginning of stubble, Adam's apple, so much maleness. ]
Do it harder.
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Oh, don't worry. I will.
[ He smiles, pushing his fingers in deep and bending them to catch Elio's prostate, giving it a few, good rubs before he slips his fingers out entirely. He grabs the lube again and squeezes the last of it onto his fingers. ]
On your side.
[ It's not a question. Elio's not the only one who can pose demands. Besides, he's discovered that whilst Elio isn't at all a push-over, he rather likes a firm approach in bed. Personally, Jean Louis isn't very keen on people ordering him about, not in general and not in bed, either, but the other way around is more or less instinctual to him; another thing that came before the rest.
He leans in and kisses the slope of Elio's neck where it transitions into shoulder and collarbone. Then, he runs his other hand down his side, stroking the skin there and waiting for him to get positioned. His cock aches and he's almost loathe to touch it - his hand, after all, isn't at all what he actually wants. Regardless, anal sex without sufficient lube is messy and boring and unattractive, none of which he'd ever willingly burden Elio with so he reaches down and grabs himself roughly near the base, stroking lube onto the shaft and trying not to think about the tightness in his balls.
Fuck, but he needs to get inside him. ]
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Then, he withdraws, pulling back in order to lube up and Elio lies there for a moment, panting and blinking uselessly against the bluish light filling the room, the shadows of fish moving across the walls in enlargened silhouettes. Eery. Eery and also, somehow sacral. It reminds him of the huge stained glass windows in many churches throughout Paris. It's probably the same in Luxembourg, he just hasn't had a chance to visit, to see. He's had other things to look into. Elio turns his head and watches Jean Louis slick up his cock, looking desperate, still, and impatient and wanting badly.
So, Elio turns onto his side when told to and draws up his top leg, opening himself up naturally, showing off his slick asshole and twisting at the waist to look back at Jean Louis, still working himself, oh, it has to be enough now, it's got to be enough, right? The kiss at the slope of his neck lingers longer, because at this very second, it's all the connect they have. That, and the promise of Elio's lubed up ass, Jean Louis' lubed up cock and those are the parts that are going to fit together. They're going to be like one body, they're going to be that close.
As soon as Jean Louis slips up behind him, Elio reaches backwards and slides his arm around his neck, drawing him as near as possible. It's awkward and a little bit painful, this position, but it doesn't hurt half as much as the emptiness does. The fact that Elio isn't full of him yet. ]
Like this - [ This close. His breathing's erratic and shallow, his voice full of air. Elio looks at every part of Jean Louis' face he can see from here. ] - our skin's just symbolic borderlines.
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When Elio speaks, his voice sounds like air. ]
You talk like you play. Did you know?
[ It's not truly a question. He's well aware of Elio's artistry, an aspect to his character that Jean Louis could never hope to truly understand or fully appreciate, though he takes what he can from it, takes and tries. It's never been important, artistry, except as a means to buy himself influence, to support and enhance the right people. Doesn't mean he can't understand that it takes a special mind to comprehend these things, the melodies and the visions and whatnot. Good artists are a bit like Olympian sportsmen - admirable, impressive but alien (and more often than not, a waste of his time).
Elio plays the piano sometimes when they're both home. Bach, he thinks, though the name means absolutely nothing to him. He's starting to recognise some of the tunes - melodies - ?? - and when Elio plays them, it's as if his fingers never quite touch the keys. Light. Air.
Angling his hips, Jean Louis buries his face in Elio's curls and breathes him in, deeply and thoroughly. He reaches down and grabs his cock, running the head up between Elio's buttocks and smearing lube over his skin in the process, long, wet trails of it. He groans. Feels the heat of his arsehole against the tip of his cock and presses in, the muscle giving after a few seconds. And then, he sinks inside, inch by inch, and everything is darkness in front of his open eyes, darkness with a touch of Elio's brown hair and the whiteness of his skin. ]
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Elio never knew, but apparently he needed a translator.
Feeling the other man slip up behind him, his hard cock leaving trails of lube between his buttocks as he pushes up between them, aiming for his asshole, the slightly puffy rim of it, his hungry insides, Elio tightens his hold on him, feeling how he's burying into his hair, pushing so close that even if it sounds awkward on the ear, no right notes here, Elio still thinks they're defeating all their own barriers. He'd tell Jean Louis this, too, follow up, but the man didn't ask and isn't asking now either as he angles himself for Elio's asshole, minimum prep, the stretch making him gasp, then groan as Jean Louis pushes in, forcefully inserting himself in his ass, pushing in inch by inch, until he's this huge fullness inside him, this sense of girth and block and not alone, not alone, not alone. Elio drops his head forward, pushing back in time, meeting him, meeting it, that feeling of togetherness and space claiming. He listens to his body as Jean Louis sinks in to the base, pausing a couple of times underway when the invasive sensation of getting filled overwhelms him, leaving him trembling slightly, panting, whimpering incoherently.
Although he wants to touch himself, the fingers of his free hand ghosting down across his stomach, Elio doesn't. It would be too much, too many impressions, he wants to savor this, savor this moment, stay in the moment. Don't rush it, don't run from it.
As the other man finally stills, Elio blinking against the shadows, tremors along his shoulders, he hears himself whispering hoarsely, voice a little bit thin, a little bit pleading: ]
You take me like you speak.
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I'd rather listen to you, though.
[ He groans and pulls back slowly, not much further than a couple of inches, before he pushes back in. Even this amount of friction makes his head spin and he blinks, forcing himself to hold it together. Then, he repeats the motion, feeling Elio's arsehole give and take around his shaft, the slide growing somewhat easier with each thrust. Pushing himself up on his elbow slightly, he reaches down with his free hand and pushes Elio's leg up by the back of his thigh, just a little. Like that, he opens him further, too, and when he pulls out partially, the angle is perfect for a harder thrust.
So he pushes in, thinking give me more of that sound and he could say it, too, but he thinks he already has. Jean Louis rarely wastes words - it's not that he doesn't have them in spades but in private, he's never been overly talkative and between the two of them, he likes how they don't pretend. They don't lie. His left shoulder gives a slight twinge and he ignores it, fucking Elio at a steady pace now, shallow but forceful thrusts. He's panting a bit himself, his breath making Elio's hair dance in front of his nose. ]
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After that, the thrusts get harder, longer, more forceful, forcing him open around the shaft of Jean Louis' cock, taking his length to the hilt, the other man's front slapping against his buttocks at each forward motion, pushing in, taking, filling him. Elio decides to let his honestly weeping cock wait a bit longer, instead running his free hand up to his nipples, pinching one of them lightly just as Jean Louis pushes over his prostate and he whimpers loudly, the double pleasure making stars dance against the backdrop of his closed eyelids. Shaking his head once, panting harshly, he shifts in Jean Louis' hold, feeling his thigh muscles protest a little and not caring even one bit, before forcing himself back over the man's shaft, feeling the head sink into him, pushing over his prostate again.
The whimpering sound leaving his mouth seems to never quite cease at this point.
Pinching his other nipple, too, his whole system feeling overwrought and tense, tingling, Elio finally raises his other hand, too and feels for Jean Louis' head with it, more accidentally than not running his fingers through the man's hair and cradling the back of his head. They're pressed so close together this way, there's no empty spaces left between them. Only the volume of their bodies. Combined.
If there was ever someone who'd deserve to own his name, Elio thinks, Jean Louis is it, isn't he? He's it. His breathing's erratic and desperate, wanting to breathe it out between them, up for grabs. Elio, Elio, Elio. ]
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