bakerstreet | otherwordly.

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otherwordly.

THE OTHERWORDLY MEME
Sometimes all you need is a word to spark off an idea.

How to play -

1. Post a comment with your character's name, canon, and any preferences you may have (no shipping, no smut, etc.)
2. Leave the comment blank or post a word or two in the body. (It may also help if you list scenarios you would like to play.)
3. Reply to other people, either with words you picked out, or words they posted as prompts for a thread.

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appetence
(n.) - an eager desire, an instinctive inclination; an attraction or a natural bond.

[ When Jean Louis had asked him to come as his date, Elio had been left momentarily speechless. The kind of speechless where you end up pouring too much maple syrup on your yoghurt, offsetting the acidity balance completely. Elio hadn’t arrived in Luxembourg with any expectation or inclination to embark on Jean Louis’ work life at all. He’d thought he’d relax in his apartment, play his piano, go for some walks, rent a bike maybe. If he was feeling adventurous. Touch himself a whole lot. Instead the other man had told him he could suit him up if he wanted, it wouldn’t be a problem, the red carpet was mostly just a place to arrive. It’s just - Elio has never walked a red carpet in his life.

Well, he has now, of course, sweating profusely the entire way, feeling awkward as fuck. Next to Jean Louis who took it all in stride, smiling. Smiling so half the moisture Elio was excreting had to be pure goo.

He’s survived the auction, too, managing by sheer willpower not to ask Jean Louis to buy him the antique piano stool on bidding, though it was red-upholstered and from 1889, the dinner which was only half as intimidating as it had sounded upon hearing about it and now, mingling, partying, more alike the sponsored events Elio has attended before in the classical music circles he does partake in sometimes. By necessity.

Jean Louis is staying close, introducing him to people before they stop by to greet them and thus, Elio has got an acceptable grasp of the social elite in Luxembourg, all gathered at the fancy Four Seasons hotel and conference hall, opposite end of the city. He likes listening to Jean Louis talk to these people. He likes seeing him in his element.

Even if Elio feels quite honestly out of his own. He tightens his grip around his champagne flute, sipping it to do something - with his hand, his mouth. They’re standing off to the side for the time being, a moment’s pause.

Elio swallows, clears his throat. ]

I’ve played at parties like this, back in Paris.

[ Meaning, never been a guest. Before now. ]

[ Under regular circumstances, he would've been bored, preferably out of existence, very early on with the night's proceedings. When Alex Wagner and Théodore Dupont decided to host a charity auction to celebrate the end of Toussaint, they'd managed to rope about a dozen other businesses and private investors into it (Madame Dupont is basically considered a beacon amongst the rich elite; incidentally, when she chose to put her vote and her influence behind Liberté rather than the CDP a couple of years ago, it caused quite the ruckus). Consequently, the event is well attended and planned out to near-perfection, with the dining and the party in the evening affording them all a lot more privacy than the auction.

The press had pretty much tried to devour Elio when they'd arrived before the auction, though. Who can blame them? He'd certainly like to eat him - more and more, even, as the evening progresses. People are overall enamoured by him, that's plainly obvious; he's an artist and a performer, at that, and he'll be on the lists, now, going forwards. In a figurative just as much (if not more) as a literal sense. He's also been visibly nervous about the whole affair, going into it straight-backed and sweating away simultaneously and it's hard not to find him irresistible when you think about it, isn't it?

Just look at him, dealing with all this shit.

Just because...

Glancing sideways at him, Jean Louis flattens one hand against the small of his back. It's not like anyone will care; if he isn't trying to hide it, obviously it isn't worth much as gossip in any case. ]

You aren't too comfortable.

[ Pause. He sips his champagne and adds, just for the sake of transparency: ]

Not that any of them can tell.

Edited 2021-12-30 18:51 (UTC)

[ He smiles, half-soft and half-apologetic, even if Jean Louis is kindly implying that he’s the only one who can tell that his nerves are acting up. If Jean Louis can, even if they’re bonded and even if he’s the only one here who’s had Elio fall apart on his tongue, there’re bound to be a few others who can look through his glamor, too. Not that Elio minds, not as such. Jean Louis is still the only one he’d fuck, after all. The rest will be gone by midnight, a right hoard of Cinderellas. He sips his champagne again, glances sideways at Jean Louis who’s supporting him with a hand on the small of his back.

It’s strong and unyielding and Jean Louis hasn’t once let him wobble his way forward alone. Elio feels safe with him, even here. So he manages a small huff, an even smaller shrug and turns towards him slightly, looking at him over the rim of his glass. ]

I look better seated at a piano, that’s all.

[ He’s in Armani tonight, because that is what Jean Louis had easy access to, supposedly. Elio has worn sponsored suits before, everything from D&G to Burberry, but Armani is such a classic look and Elio feels like he isn’t quite worthy. He thinks about himself, seventeen and running barefoot through his mother’s orchard, dusty toes. Then, he thinks about looking at himself at the tailors, floor to ceiling mirror, and realizing he’s 30+ now. He’s an adult, he does adult things like wearing Armani at high society functions with his date, the Foreign Minister who, by the way, also looks remarkable in a tux. Adult things like thinking about blowjobs when he should be trying to remember what the brunette is called who’s heading their way.

Jean Louis mentioned her earlier. Marie-something, no, it’s gone. All he remembers is the tempo indication for the beginning of the Tempest sonata (largo) and the taste of the other man’s mouth.

None of these things are helpful, but Jean Louis is, of course. That’s the point. ]

[ He smiles faintly and looks away, catching Marie-Claude's gaze as she heads in their direction. She gives him a small nod, courteous but not as an invitation, clearly otherwise engaged. You always know, with her. Well, or she might be artfully escaping from her father. That part is hard to tell, with how that lofty facade of hers seems to persist throughout pretty much every possible scenario. Have to admire that level of consistency. ]

I disagree.

[ He steps a little closer, just to feel that bump of hip against hip, the increase in heat and proximity. Around them, people drift from one social constellation to the next and the next and it almost feels as if they're somehow momentarily exempt, him and Elio, like they're watching from their own little private bubble, not exactly present. It's a good feeling. As if they've managed to claim their own space, even here. ]

This look - [ He looks him over blatantly, from head to toe and back up, lingering over his front a little because that suit jacket looks fantastic on him, emphasising his long lines perfectly, even making him seem taller than he is. ] - is just new. It makes you look different.

[ Another sip. He tilts his head slightly. ]

No doubt, in time...

[... in time, what? He stops. Trails off. The other man has made him no promises - he certainly can't expect him to agree to any repeat performances and he can't make him, either, he's got nothing to bargain with and no strings to pull. So instead, he just stares at Elio, his look veering dangerously close to deer-in-headlight-territory whilst he leaves the silence between them as it is, full of unspoken implications.

Fuck, he spews bullshit for a living. ]

[ It starts out as the thing he hates most, compliments, though Jean Louis manages to sell it as more of an objective truth and that’s easier to swallow, even easier as the other man steps closer, their hips bumping, shoulders, they are creating their very own sphere within this universe of sparkling, loaded stars. Elio wants to reach out and touch him, something discreet that won’t attract any attention, a hand on the small of his back or a brush of fingers over his forearm, close to his wrist, naked, bared skin, darker than his own. More Italian than the Italian’s. Elio’s trying to decide between these two approaches when Jean Louis continues, in time which means he’s thought about the future. Too. Like Elio has thought about the future, not just the next couple of months, but years and decades and death.

How do you put that in words, though? Non-dramatically.

How do you finish that sentence, in time?

Elio wants to know. ]

How long did it take you to get used to?

[ He’s read up on the other man on the Web, first things first, the official story, the gossip, he’s more movie star than Oliver ever was. Tragic backstories make people marvel at your great achievements, don’t they, but that’s only because people in general don’t have professors for fathers who’d use the Illiad as a bedtime story. Elio knows about heroes.

He knows about forevers.

Letting his hand run down Jean Louis’ back, he makes the touch heavy, insistent, he lets him feel that Elio’s also going to be there tomorrow, the taste of cock in his mouth. ]

Give me chances and give me time, Jean Louis. Give me all the time.

[ It's a ridiculous notion, frankly, the idea of more or years, even, in terms of human relationships and how immensely fickle they can be, how fragile. He's well aware - just talking about it, around it, is making him feel almost unbearably restless. He's never actively wanted to spent that kind of time - the kind that stretches seemingly indefinitely - with anyone, perhaps except for Marcel and even that... That is different, too. Perhaps when he was much, much younger, there was a drive towards it of sorts but then again, children are inherently naive and ignorant and he, in particular, took a long time and many, many attempts to learn the ropes, such as they were. Such as they are.

In this world of riches and gossip and power, it didn't take him nearly as long.

But that's not what they're talking about right now and Elio says, give me chances, his hand warm and heavy, leaving invisible imprints through the layers of his jacket and shirt, maybe even through his very skin. Give me all the time, he says, because he's new - he's nothing like any of them, like anyone he's ever met before.

So in turn, Jean Louis becomes ignorant all over again, to the point where he can't even be sure of what he's learned to begin with. He looks at the other man for a long moment, expression relatively blank, though there's a very slight furrow to his brow and a rare stiffness to his mouth. ]

I'll give you whatever you want.

[ He swallows and straightens a little, his gaze gliding away from Elio. They're still alone in the crowd. Imagine that. ]

Doubt I ever got used to it. Rather - [ He smiles, unpleasantly, but his grip against Elio's back doesn't waver or tighten and he doesn't impose any sort of distance between them. This is just truth. For some reason, he likes that between them, the feel of honesty. ] - it got used to me.

That part I never needed getting used to.

[ He says it with conviction, because Jean Louis hasn’t let his hand slip away and isn’t moving out of reach either, simply keeping his hold on him and serving him honesty, the kind that says, I’m strange in the eyes of the world and Elio wants to tell him, me too, caro, me too. Almost hopefully, if he’s allowed that and tonight Elio thinks he is, he thinks about a future where he isn’t weird alone and it seems so utterly surreal that he can’t place it amongst these rich investors and sponsors and philanthropists, but here they’re standing regardless, Jean Louis and him. Here they are and they’ll be here again before long, because Jean Louis will give him anything, he says, including repeat performances, in bed and in public and maybe a mix of both, when they’ve settled a little more. Jean Louis will give him anything, including an overbearing kind of understanding. A perspective in which Elio isn’t entirely too much.

A life where he’s allowed to ask for more than he’s learned to. Out of fear.

Jean Louis isn’t afraid. That’s the difference.

So Elio wants to not be afraid, either.

Looking out over the crowd, Marie-Claude, that was her name, she’s just one of many now, one in a row and the row ends with him, Elio thinks that he shouldn’t already wonder what to get, from Jean Louis, just because the other man is willing to give. That’s the polite thing, but he doesn’t think their feelings are any definition of polite, Jean Louis’ and his, that’s the point, right? They’re doing it differently. Because they’re inherently different people.

People who others have to get used to. ]

My parents celebrate Hanukkah at my mother’s summer house near Bordighera. It’s a big thing, my father and his new wife, their son, my mother and her new husband. Me. Our cook. The men who keep the place presentable when we aren’t there. [ His fingers bury into the fabric of Jean Louis’ suit jacket, desperately. Make me feel less strange there as well. ] Please come.

[ That part, says Elio, meaning the part that Jean Louis can't articulate because it's too unusual for him but he knows, of course, when it's being referenced, when he talks about himself or when others assume its existence, with or without proper reason. He knows, when Vincent stares at him in a very particular manner or when any random interviewer words a question with excessive carefulness. He knew, too, when he lived in the institution many years ago, being one of several strange destinies and feeling singular, all the same.

It's really very odd how normal it feels here, with Elio, how unremarkable he makes it. He can feel the tension in his shoulders dissipating again, the way it tends to do around the other man, and he wouldn't know how to pay him back for that, how in a million fucking years... Sighing, he sips his champagne again - the flute is nowhere near empty, seeing as Jean Louis generally drinks with extreme care and not a small amount of dislike - and listens as Elio tells him about his family's Hanukkah celebrations. Bordighera, he says. Up north, isn't it. Close to the French Riviera. That's a nice place.

And then, his grip tightens against Jean Louis' suit jacket because -

Oh. It's like that.

He blinks, his breath actually catching in his throat for all of two seconds before he fixes the problem and replies, voice steady and sure: ]

Naturally, if you wish.

[ It's not that he doesn't want to, obviously, or he would've said no. He really isn't in the habit of doing things despite himself. But something about being invited to Elio's family gathering makes him feel strangely thrown, like there's an empty space where his reaction and his ideas concerning these things ought to be. His family had traditions, he thinks. Not Hanukkah, for obvious reasons, but Christmas. Easter celebrations. Fleur couldn't do without.

Regardless.

Odd. ]

[ Elio hears the slight intake of breath first, of course, because he's used to listening for these things, these little indications that he should pull back, abort mission, be less, demand less. As such, he's one hundred percent ready to backtrack again (quickly), add you don't have to, apologize, sorry times a million, but then Jean Louis catches himself and he says, naturally and he says, if you wish.

And Elio relaxes, then, because although he knows he can be too much, he also knows that Jean Louis can take him, that Jean Louis wouldn't take him if he didn't want to, it's all a matter of want between them. They're inclined towards each other, simple as that. He exhales, long and slow. Then, he bends his head to the side and rests his cheek on Jean Louis' shoulder, it's an an awkward angle because they're the same height, but Elio doesn't care, like he doesn't care how it's a bit more of an obvious gesture than sneaking a touch of the other man's hand. The few people who steal peeks as they pass by are fast to look away again. Like, somehow, they're still the only two people here, when in fact they're surrounded.

It's been just the two of them from the beginning and maybe long before, too, he thinks. ]

I wish.

[ It's said with that childish simplicity that no one allows him except Jean Louis. Jean Louis who'll look great in the middle of the chaotic good of his extended family, whom his mother is going to love, Mafalda, too, who will make Elio's father silently wonder and Miranda approve, after much skeptic deliberation. In that crowd, too, they'll be the only two people to each other and Elio remembers another time when he was twosome rather than lonely.

He hadn't thought he'd ever get that feeling back. He thought he'd lost it along with his name.

Elio smiles. Jean Louis doesn't care about theoretical things like names, he cares about purposes and outcomes. Here Elio thought he was the only one who acted selfishly in love, sometimes he even thought he was a bit terrible for it.

But this doesn't feel terrible.

This feels true. ]

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