[ Since Elio's palace appeared and since he started living there, the garden outside has always been just an illusion to cozy up the insides. Something pretty to look at through the large windows, bathed in light to denote the change of time, that kind of thing. It's never been its own place. After the bee flew out the window, however, and Elio had put the newly baked focaccia away, saved a loaf for Lucifer, later, a door appeared in the farthest corner, another French door, open, letting in a warm breeze from the garden that was suddenly there. Existing. Elio had stopped in the doorway and looked out upon the rich flower beds, the small cluster of fruit trees (peaches and a fig) and thought, someone was here. Someone was here and it wasn't Elio, except Elio feels the surge of energy beneath his skin, as if he's been touched by something electric and turned on, the non-sexual way.
He spends the rest of the afternoon picking down fruit, peaches in baskets, figs in baskets, they are generous trees. He does it in jeans, chest bare, feeling the fake sun which might or might not be so fake anymore caress his skin. It's like Italy and it's like something else, something entirely his own, belonging to no memory and no past. Maybe belonging to the future instead, stretching out in front of him already.
Elio is careful with the delicate fig branches, snapping nothing as he plucks off a fruit, placing it in the basket resting beneath his other arm. He's got his back turned to the entrance leading into the palace proper, knowing no one will come except Lucifer, knowing somehow that no one can enter these premises without explicit permission or his heart full of them which is a permission in and by itself, right?
no subject
He spends the rest of the afternoon picking down fruit, peaches in baskets, figs in baskets, they are generous trees. He does it in jeans, chest bare, feeling the fake sun which might or might not be so fake anymore caress his skin. It's like Italy and it's like something else, something entirely his own, belonging to no memory and no past. Maybe belonging to the future instead, stretching out in front of him already.
Elio is careful with the delicate fig branches, snapping nothing as he plucks off a fruit, placing it in the basket resting beneath his other arm. He's got his back turned to the entrance leading into the palace proper, knowing no one will come except Lucifer, knowing somehow that no one can enter these premises without explicit permission or his heart full of them which is a permission in and by itself, right?
It's a permission in and by itself, his love. ]