[ Lucifer doesn't get the point of it, Elio can tell, waiting and that's okay, Elio doesn't mind it hovering between them like a tiny mystery that neither of them quite knows how to solve. But don't take too long, he's warned and Elio wants to ask him what too long is to the Devil, if fifteen years qualify. Still, he doesn't ask, because maybe Elio won't wait fifteen years more. Maybe Elio will, at some point soon, really give up on waiting altogether. You're allowed to hope, right? His eyes lock with the other man's, the way they're looking at each other edged by sexual implications, by all the things they could be doing instead of looking. I want to taste you, Elio thinks. I'm allowed to want that, right?
Then, abruptly, the mood changes again, as it does between them, it seems, like a pendulum back and forth. Lucifer fishes out his phone and glances down at it, Elio getting to his feet and walking back over to the piano, standing behind the bench and just looking at the keys, mapping out the first bars of some Mozart piece he transcribed last week. He doesn't touch. It didn't go too well last time, his fingers need time, his heart does.
At the other man's suggestion, he turns towards him slightly and raises his chin, remembering Mafalda in that way you pull out a basic from your closet. He smiles, a slight hmm'ing sound to it. ]
I'd take it as a compliment. Our cook was Neapolitan, though, so they better be on top of their game.
[ Not that Elio will expect them to beat Anchise's fish soup and Mafalda's baking with Oliver's input kneaded into the bread. However, he isn't the type to judge harshly, he knows how to enjoy a meal although it isn't home.
And he certainly knows how to appreciate any meal that is, too. ]
[ Lucifer follows the other man's movements with his eyes as he gets to his feet and strolls over to the piano, though he doesn't take a seat, merely looks at it, at the keyboard. There's something about his expression, about the way the shadows in the room seemingly blend with his smile, that he can't quite condone. Ordering a mixed menu quickly, going with three courses and some very delectable wine options, he pockets his phone once more and turns a bit in his seat.
He thinks again, about Elio who doesn't take up space and wonders why humans hold themselves back like this, why his father made them like that, why he made them ashamed of their own potential. He thinks about his own punishment, about his mother, locked in Hell for eons and now, stuck in a human body on Earth, ready to wage war against Heaven. And back to Elio, his face criss-crossed by the lights from the overhead chandelier, its tiny LEDs glittering in the polished surface of the grand.
Sometimes, a smaller scope might indeed be kinder.
But stifling, too, first of all. ]
Why don't you give it another go?
[ A handwave in the direction of the piano. ]
It's crispier than the one downstairs. Just keep your touch light.
[ Ask me again, Elio had said to Lucifer earlier and now he is being asked again, as requested, the man introducing him to his beautiful instrument verbally (just keep your touch light) and Elio nods with a slight frown of concentration, seating himself on the bench and wriggling a bit from side to side to make comfortable, before he draws in a deep breath, resting his hands on his thighs. Already before he has sat down, he's decided what to play, no Moonlight Sonata, Lucifer already saved that one for him and he can't outdo the Devil at the keyboard, can he? He doesn't really want to either, it was an incredibly exhilarating little performance. It settled some things. Instead he goes for another Beethoven sonata, Les Adieux, the adagio of it one of his absolute favorites. Crisp, like the piano. Melancholy, like him.
"The Goodbyes", right?
As he places his hands on the keys, the split second before hitting the first note, Elio has an urge to look over at the other man, currently preoccupied watching him from his armchair, and although he normally wouldn't, he'd stick to his concentrated focus on his hands, on the instrument, on the music, he doesn't hold back this time. Glances over and catches his gaze, smiles slightly and hits the first chords blindly, fingers finding their way over the keys as airily as he can manage, the tempo only picking up after the first few bars and he keeps up with it, the music coming out breezy. Prettily, and Elio doesn't mind pretty. Doesn't mind being it or bringing it. Not with the emotional depth and slight twist of melancholia that the piece also holds. That he does.
There's a complete melt, this time, between his mind and his heart and his fingers and he gets a little lost in it. It doesn't happen often anymore, the whole package. ]
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no subject
Then, abruptly, the mood changes again, as it does between them, it seems, like a pendulum back and forth. Lucifer fishes out his phone and glances down at it, Elio getting to his feet and walking back over to the piano, standing behind the bench and just looking at the keys, mapping out the first bars of some Mozart piece he transcribed last week. He doesn't touch. It didn't go too well last time, his fingers need time, his heart does.
At the other man's suggestion, he turns towards him slightly and raises his chin, remembering Mafalda in that way you pull out a basic from your closet. He smiles, a slight hmm'ing sound to it. ]
I'd take it as a compliment. Our cook was Neapolitan, though, so they better be on top of their game.
[ Not that Elio will expect them to beat Anchise's fish soup and Mafalda's baking with Oliver's input kneaded into the bread. However, he isn't the type to judge harshly, he knows how to enjoy a meal although it isn't home.
And he certainly knows how to appreciate any meal that is, too. ]
no subject
He thinks again, about Elio who doesn't take up space and wonders why humans hold themselves back like this, why his father made them like that, why he made them ashamed of their own potential. He thinks about his own punishment, about his mother, locked in Hell for eons and now, stuck in a human body on Earth, ready to wage war against Heaven. And back to Elio, his face criss-crossed by the lights from the overhead chandelier, its tiny LEDs glittering in the polished surface of the grand.
Sometimes, a smaller scope might indeed be kinder.
But stifling, too, first of all. ]
Why don't you give it another go?
[ A handwave in the direction of the piano. ]
It's crispier than the one downstairs. Just keep your touch light.
no subject
"The Goodbyes", right?
As he places his hands on the keys, the split second before hitting the first note, Elio has an urge to look over at the other man, currently preoccupied watching him from his armchair, and although he normally wouldn't, he'd stick to his concentrated focus on his hands, on the instrument, on the music, he doesn't hold back this time. Glances over and catches his gaze, smiles slightly and hits the first chords blindly, fingers finding their way over the keys as airily as he can manage, the tempo only picking up after the first few bars and he keeps up with it, the music coming out breezy. Prettily, and Elio doesn't mind pretty. Doesn't mind being it or bringing it. Not with the emotional depth and slight twist of melancholia that the piece also holds. That he does.
There's a complete melt, this time, between his mind and his heart and his fingers and he gets a little lost in it. It doesn't happen often anymore, the whole package. ]