Archive of Our Own ^beta

"Mrs. P!" 

"Oh, Oliver!" 

Elio had known weeks prior of the arrival of a certain American colleague of his father, but the knowledge had given him no warning of the extent of their familiarity with one another. Oliver, as his father said his name to be, is a towering man with overflowing charisma to back his stature. Anella opens her arms to him and warmly takes him in an embrace, which he returns with glee. Though a known cordial man, Samuel usually bears professional reservations around the people he invites over for the summer in the villa. Oliver is different. Samuel skips a stiff handshake completely and hugs him as his wife has previously done. 

They would be expecting him downstairs, as is customary. Elio would greet the new guest for the summer and lend his room while he moves to the smaller one down the hallway. The chatter continues, mostly mundane small talk glazing over the long travel and exhaustion. Elio turns on the bend of the staircase, stopping when the voices descend to hushed whispers. The stone walls of the villa hardly allow for such secrets, and it will only take a moment of concentration for him to make out the words murmured under their breaths. 

Elio pokes his head through the doorway of his father’s study, smiling politely. “Hey,” 

The three turn to him, alarmed. It’s Anella who recovers first and invites him inside with a wave of her arm. “Ah, tesoro,” she greets, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. “Aiuta Oliver a portare le sue cose in camera tua.”

Elio finds two bags on the floor, then his gaze lands on the man, staring at him wide-eyed and frozen. “Elio, nice to meet you.” 

A beat passes before Oliver breaks his stare and takes his hand in a formal handshake. “Oliver,” he croaks, avoiding his eyes. 

“Let me show you to your room.” Elio remains courteous despite the misplaced astonishment of their guest. “My room?”

“The other one would be better, I think.” His father’s answer strangely cuts through the air like a verdict. “Across the hall to our room, the one we recently renovated.” 

Elio recalls no such thing. “We have?” 

“Yes, darling, with the impressionist painting from the professor from Sapienza.” Anella ruffles his hair and nods to Oliver and Samuel. 

Elio looks to the ground, tracing the faint lines on the stone. Up. Around. Blood spills into his mouth when the skin splits from biting. The trance breaks, and Elio resumes.

“Right, that one,” he says, picking up the bags and jutting his head to the stairs. “Follow me,” 

Anella reaches forward as if to wipe at his face, then retracts her hand and nods for him to go on. Elio looks between his parents, confused with their worry, but he believes it can wait. He doesn’t have to look over his shoulders to know that Oliver is on his trail. Elio is keenly aware of his presence despite the silence with which he moves. It’s graceful that he manages it, and Elio takes note of his stealth as they enter the said guest room. 

“Well, there goes,” Elio swings the door open for Oliver before he follows, dropping the bags beside the wardrobe pushed on the corner of the wall by the window. “I’ve been away most of the year for university. I totally forgot about this room.” 

Their eyes meet. Elio startles from the look he finds on Oliver’s face; stunned and shattered. 

“You don’t remember?” 

Elio frowns. He just said that, hasn’t he? 

“No, so this room is as new to me as it is to you, unfortunately.” He maintains his courteousness, though their guest surely seems to be severely disoriented. “If there’s a problem with the bathroom here, there’s another down the hallway before the balcony. You can use that. Usually, I move to the smaller one across it so my room vacates for my father’s guest. You’re the lucky one who lands your own room.” 

The staring is really unnerving, though not in a way that makes his skin crawl. Elio feels exposed somehow, though which part of himself, he cannot tell. There’s a raw look in Oliver’s eyes that makes Elio feel new, or perhaps recognized is a better term. It’s only a problem because an appropriate response to the scrutiny is elusive to him at the moment. 

Oliver shakes his head, regrouping. “Sorry, I’m a little-” 

He only makes vague motions with his hand to fill in for his loss of words. 

“It’s alright. I’ll leave you to rest, then. If you need me, my room is-”

“The door to the opposite end.” 

Elio pauses. “You know?” 

“I - well, you mentioned.” 

“Have I?” 

Oliver shrugs at him, nonchalant. 

“Oh,” Elio gapes, unsure of himself all of a sudden. “There you go. Welcome to our home.” 

The flash of sorrow is brief but striking. Elio feels his own chest constrict, empathetic to the emotions of their guest who couldn’t seem to get a hold of them. Whatever caused it must’ve weighed on him long and hard. Elio can only imagine what it could be. 

Without another word to each other, he leaves the room and returns to his own. The day goes on for him as it normally would, yet nothing in it is fundamentally the same. Elio alternates between reading a book and transcribing his music, content to stay on his opposite end while his skin calms down from the focus it was put under. 

Their guest has made himself scarce, likely using up the rest of the day to rest. Still, there's an unsettling tinge about Oliver that stirs Elio in his core. How can a stranger take one glance at him and be consumed with longing? Elio supposes a logical explanation is he reminds Oliver of someone dear, perhaps a lost loved one. Quite a tragic assumption, and likely will never meet a confirmation if it is truly the case. Elio would never dare to pry. 

And so he continues to transcribe, putting his headphones over his ears as he scribbles on his desk, intent on keeping his productivity while it's making itself available to him. Summer days are long and lazy. The flow of his drive is rare. 

The bell tolls just a shy past dusk. The villa is engulfed in muted blues as the night takes over, just in time that they're called for dinner. Elio wonders if their guest knows of this as well, provided the familiarity he's exhibited to possess with their home. 

Elio knocks once on the door, twice, and still no answer. "It's dinner," he announces, tapping insistently on the wood. 

The bell tolls again. There's rustling behind the door, shuffling, a thud. Elio waits for a verbal response and doesn't receive any. 

"Hello?" Elio tries again, growing impatient with the seemingly awry manners of the man. 

Nothing moves this time. Elio scowls, slightly offended. How the American wants to act is a reflection of his character, and with that in mind Elio turns away from his door and towards the dining hall to join his parents. 

It's only the morning after that Elio sees Oliver again; washed up and dressed for the day. Samuel greets him cheerfully, checking up on him as he completely disappears after his arrival. The interaction tells Elio that it's something his father knows about Oliver. Rather than attempting to join the conversation, Elio opts to observe the table as the morning unfolds. There's caution in the way that Samuel and Anella act, though nothing is unnatural between them and their guest. Oliver, in his seat directly opposite of Elio, is adamantly pretending that he doesn't exist. This gives him the opportunity to take him apart with his eyes; the neatly swept blond hair, shaven around the face, golden under the warm morning light. There's a glint when he moves from his chest, which Elio struggles to make out until Oliver leans back on his seat. 

The sight of the Star of David dangling from his neck makes Elio conscious about his own. They're Jews of discretion, as his mother put it, and yet he can't recall when he's begun wearing it, nor why he hasn't thought to discard it when his mother has declared them to be so. 

Elio looks to the table, following the light cracks on the surface. Up. Around. The pad of his thumb sends a jolt when the corner of the Star digs into his skin. The trance breaks, and Elio resumes.

"I can show you around," he offers, following the conversation as Oliver brings up his need for a new translator. 

There it appears again; he looks at Elio with unrestrained astonishment, breathless. The moment engulfs him wholly that he finds himself helpless against the pull of Oliver's gaze. 

"I wouldn't want to take up your time." Oliver politely turns him down. There's hardly a trace of his momentary breakdown once he gets going. 

"It's not a problem at all." Elio counters. He's uncertain himself of what he wants to achieve through this, knowing full well that Oliver doesn't seem to be half as at ease around him as he is with his parents. Likely, it's that in itself that drives Elio to pin himself by his side. What is it about him that shakes up Oliver so terribly that he's paralyzed by it? 

Oliver holds his eyes, unflinching. "Alright," he agrees, then looks down on his plate, sneaking a glance with Samuel, the Anella. 

The exchange doesn't sit right with Elio. Very few things since the arrival of their American guest does, though he wouldn't blame it on the man entirely. 

When they get moving from the breakfast table, Elio allows Oliver to move at a distance comfortable to him, which is quite an unnecessary gap. Anchise tips his hat to Oliver in greeting, and they attempt a small talk over his broken Italian. It's another testament to how settled he is in this landscape; even knowing where to fetch the bikes and then every bend of the streets that lead to the heart of the town. 

Clearly, Oliver's decision to agree to go along with him is only out of an urge to indulge his host. Elio feels a tad humiliated about it. Was he overeager? Can Oliver tell how heavily intrigued he is less than twenty-four hours since his arrival? 

"I can hook you up with a few I've worked with personally. I'm sure I can get one or two of them on short notice." Elio puts his bike against the wall, then turns to find Oliver all but gaping at him once more. "Unless, of course, you already have someone in mind?" 

Oliver visibly reorients himself before answering. "No, not really. I could use some suggestions. Did you say you've worked with them before?" 

Is their guest going to make a habit of Elio repeating himself? 

"Yes, especially for my bachelor's, which I wrote mostly here." Elio explains, leading him to one of his trusted. 

"Right," 

Elio tries not to read too much into that response. He goes in and introduces Oliver, their agenda coming in right away. From there onwards will be entirely on Oliver, whether he would see this fit for him or not. Elio gives a curt nod to the translator and walks to give them space to talk. 

By the time Oliver emerges, Elio has gotten himself a pack of cigarettes and is halfway through a stick. 

"Satisfactory?" 

Oliver watches him, then nods. Elio offers the cigarette, his hand extended on the space between them a second too long that it has become awkward. Oliver attempts a smile then shakes his head, turning him down a second time and all before noon. 

Instead of returning to the villa, Oliver walks off to another direction, his feet closing the distance to the place in his head with certainty. Elio figures he can leave Oliver on his own given his knowledge of their town, but he knows his father will find it rather impolite to simply ditch their guest. 

"Ciao Romano," Oliver saunters towards the man sitting by the doorway, who takes a couple of moments before his face blooms into recognition. 

"Oliver! Bentornato," 

Elio follows Oliver into the bar, where he easily inserts himself to a spot around the table and seamlessly joins their game of cards. They reacquaint gradually, two of the men actually recalling Oliver from his last visit. Surely, the previous guests that they had were pleasant enough, but Elio can't say for sure that anyone is quite as integrated into their little town as Oliver is. 

They don't speak, and Elio supposes whether he stays behind to watch or leave Oliver to his own rediscovery of their town wouldn't matter at this point. The curiosity wins out and he grabs a chair, ordering himself a drink. For a moment, Elio catches Oliver glance sideways, then plays it off over dealing cards. He's yet to have gotten his fill of the oddity about Elio, and in that aspect he likes to think that they are equals. 

The longer Elio stays, the more evident it becomes to him that Oliver has very little need for a preamble before he gets on with people. Though dressed smartly among the casual crowd, he has that common touch that connects him easily with the rest. He follows the conversation well enough though it's in Italian, even responding with his own little quips. It's not that he's bad, but rather lacking in practice. Elio notes his awareness of the grammar, and he even has a solid vocabulary to supply his need to communicate. It all boils down to the real time arrangement of his words that he hasn't gotten on rhythm of yet. Elio wonders if Oliver has known Italian before, or has only learned it in congruence to his initial visit in their villa some years back that Elio has tragically missed. 

The first few days following the arrival of their summer guests have flowed as such. They don't interact directly, but both are aware of the focus that the other fixes them with on moments that they're turned elsewhere. Elio is convinced to believe that it will remain a private, little game between them for the rest of his stay. Whoever breaks first remains to be seen.

Oliver moves with an air of confidence that swallows up an entire room. Elio has seen it happen over the course of their meals with additional guests coming over to join them, sometimes a few neighbors, their relatives, a handful  falling in both categories, or another colleague of his father who can manage to swing by the villa. In the presence of fellow academics, Oliver thrives marvelously. The limitation of the language hardly poses as an obstacle to his astonishing display of intelligence, on top of the candor with which he speaks each idea. Samuel is endlessly proud every time it happens, and Anella is absolutely delighted about the cadence of the brilliant exchanges over their dining table. 

For that, Elio gives Oliver the highest of respects. It is easily shaping to be one of Elio's most interesting summers, never mind that Oliver, though adjusted to his presence, has done so through indifference if not undisguised aversion to breathing the same air as him unless absolutely necessary. Elio doesn't hold it against him. In fact, it's fascinating. Their great, American guest, fretting and skittish around the unassuming son of the host whose only prominence begins and ends with his command of music. 

If they're not consumed by their respective works, Elio with transcribing and reading his music - Bach, this time, and coming along promisingly - whereas Oliver with his publication, Elio finds Oliver lying on the grass, tanning, while he's on his way to the pool or elsewhere. Once or twice, they shared a moment by the pool, only in their skimpy trunks, soaked by the water, skin everywhere. There's even occasions where Oliver would go out of his way to help his mother with the harvest. Elio never once forgets to watch him, noting the certainty of his steps, the composure he bears. There's hardly any tell on what sets him apart from the other academics who had been their guests for six weeks in a summer, but Elio would dare to claim that Oliver is on another plane entirely. Perhaps it is that very air about him that catapulted him to the extraordinary fondness of his parents. 

The night marks Oliver's first week with them. Should Elio pass a judgment, he'd say he quite likes Oliver, all things considered. 

"Why would you be here?" Oliver finds him when he turns the corner, passing by the hall where Elio sits on the piano. 

It's likely just platitude on his part to make small talk with the son of his host when they're all but pushed together in a corner of the same room. Elio doesn't mind, but the engagement doesn't thrill him either. 

"Non c'è niente da fare." 

"Non siete usciti ieri sera?" 

"Non vengo perché sto male." Elio spares him from agonizing over his following choice of words at the price of his honesty. "You're only here for a couple of weeks. Why bother with the Italian?" 

Oliver looks over to the window, effectively dodging his eyes. "It's very dear to me." 

"A fling from your last visit?" 

"More than that." 

The conviction startles Elio. He doesn't even expect an admission, considering how distantly polite their interactions had been. Oliver pins him in place when he turns his head to look at him. Even from across the room, Elio burns under the intensity of it.

"Do I remind you of her?" 

Oliver momentarily crumbles but he catches himself. He shoves his hands in his pockets as he spins on his heels, preparing to be on his way. 

"Don't let it bother you," he says. "Later," 

It's not the first time Oliver has used the word to dismiss someone, though Elio cannot pinpoint when he began to hear it. At this point, it's almost automatically associated with him that it ceases to be a thing of curiosity. However, Elio knows that it has never been directed towards him. The standard, dismissive farewell shouldn't have plucked a string deep inside his consciousness that his head numbs over the vibration, but there goes. Later, Oliver has said, and the world doesn't wait for him to process it before the walls close in on him. 

Elio looks to the floor, following the patterns on the rug at his feet . Up. Around. His arm resting on top of the piano slides and hits the keys. The trance breaks, and Elio resumes.

That's not polite, Elio had intended to say. When he looks towards where Oliver stands, he's gone. 

Going to bed with a terrible headache isn't new to Elio, but it has been a while since its last visit. A good night's rest usually does it for him, so he washes up in the bathroom. Had Oliver decided one summer early to visit his father, he would've been occupying the larger room on one side of this bathroom, while Elio would move to the other, with no other way out but through this. He wonders how differently things would play out between them if they're so intimately connected in one shared space such as this. One wouldn't have a way of escaping the awareness of the other’s presence once inside. A part of Elio yearns that experience, a curiosity. Oliver has only been desperately aloof with him to push back the strikingly deep emotions he can't suppress, this much he's certain of. Elio has the urge to push on the button until it gives, but he doubts Oliver will appreciate that very much. 

Don't let it bother you, he'd said downstairs when Elio attempted a conversation with him. Later, he added, then disappeared from him like their meeting hadn't happened at all. Elio heeds the advice. He goes to bed and wills for the pounding to subside. 

"Dov'è Elio?" 

Elio had known weeks prior of the arrival of a certain American colleague of his father, but the knowledge did nothing to prepare him for an introduction first thing in the morning. If he doesn't get up in a minute or two, Mafalda would be on his door, hounding him for terrible manners. Elio tosses on the bed and rises on his feet to dress for the day. He picks out a light blue, billowy shirt that's a couple of sizes too big on him. It's the closest he has to a smart casual that doesn't make him feel ridiculous, so he throws it on and rolls it up to his elbows. 

The chatter grows louder as he approaches. Elio stops to observe their guest; a tall, American man dressed down in a casual shirt and tiny shorts, sunglasses hanging on the neckline of his top. The mop of his hair shines golden under the stream of the light he's sitting under, even more so his tanned skin that could've fooled Elio to thinking he's been here longer than an hour or so. 

"Sorry, I overslept," Elio bends down to kiss his mother on the cheek, then his father. "It's Elio, by the way. Nice to meet you." 

Their guest startles in his seat, looking between Samuel and Anella. 

"I'm their son, if-" 

"Yeah, of course, sorry. Uh, I'm Oliver." 

They shake hands over the dining table, two firm tugs if Elio is feeling specific. Oliver sinks back down on his seat, ashen on the face and shaking a little. Elio looks over his father first, who's passing the pitcher to Mafalda, then to his mother, who's already looking at him with a gentle smile before she cups his face, caressing him on the cheek. It doesn't raise alarms for his attentive and hospitable parents, so Elio follows their lead and continues with breakfast. 

"Do you need me to move your things to my room?" Elio asks once they finish their meal, their table currently being cleared out by Mafalda and his mother. 

Oliver stops, frozen where he stands. He gulps and shakes his head, not returning Elio's gaze. "I'm given another room, down the other end." 

"That one? It's a mess." 

"Oh no, darling. We had it renovated."

Elio looks at his mother, confused. They'd expressed before their desire to keep that spare room for themselves, likely to be converted into a personal study so they can fully turn the other one on the ground floor into a library. 

"Wow," he breathes out, slightly amazed. "You're a lucky one to get your own room."

Oliver, though still with the remnants of his maelstrom earlier, is evidently more put together when he responds. "Then I should definitely work hard," he says, fully attempting to come  across as good-natured. "Later!" 

He's still within sight when Elio repeats, with plenty of disapproval, their guest's preferred bid of farewell. "Later?" 

Anella and Samuel exchange looks, his mother shrugging then his father turns and shakes his head fondly. "He'll warm up eventually." 

Elio doesn't press. Even though he tries not to hastily judge a person's character, their new guest seems to really put that principle to test. In Elio's opinion, there are better ways to interact with your host's son, and so far Oliver has only shown him the same brassy disregard that he's been given all his life by every other academic who shares their dinner table and talks of intellectual matters with his father, never mind the fact that Elio himself is raised heavily influenced by it; well-read and splendidly educated. Perhaps a couple of days will make all the difference. Besides, Oliver did seem derailed upon their meeting. It's unlikely for his parents to not mention him. People might even say that they only ever talk about him, so Elio will rule that out. Was it something about him, then? Had he looked at Oliver a certain way and he took it to mean as something bearing unwarranted prejudice? Surely no such thing would arise in a moment of introduction. 

It's afternoon when Elio sees Oliver again. He watches the man as he leaves the house, only in his trunks and sunglasses, shirtless with papers in hand, then straight towards the pool where he swings his legs over the ledge to dip his calves into the water. Elio is willing to consider his father's insight, but he believes now isn't the time, so he settles on observing their guest from the outdoor dining table meters away from where the pool, the broad expanse of his back glinting under the sun and attracting his gaze. 

Though his father always assures their guests that they are encouraged to make a home of their villa during their stay, very few actually follow it. Oliver might be the prime example of that. He gives Elio the impression that he's rather comfortable in his own skin, not limited to his toned physique, but also in how he carries himself with bravado. It's a man who has a clear measure of his worth and bears it proudly. No matter that he didn't manage it in the first moments of their introduction. Elio can easily identify a confident man when it's in front of him. 

Perhaps it's that very impression that holds Elio's attention for the days that follow. Somehow, it never gets directed to him, but effortlessly towards his father, his mother, their visitors during lunch or dinner. Everyone but him. In fact, Elio sometimes feels as though Oliver is going out of his way to avoid him. It's in the mornings when they're inevitably in the same space; sharing a table and sitting on its opposite ends, occasionally brushing the very tips of their hands while passing a plate or the pitcher. Understandably, Oliver keeps himself holed up in the study, in another armchair pushed against some wall in various hallways of their home, drafts in hand. 

Of course, Elio doesn't expect him to act helpless, but Oliver, for someone who's only been in their town for a couple of days, is strikingly familiar with the people and places. Mafalda fondly greets him when he happens upon her in the kitchen, offering snacks and small talk. Even Anchise, who's always fiddling with one thing or another, takes a little pause to chat with him. 

Everyone, except Elio. Once, when Oliver is lying down on the ledge of the pool, shades on and wearing only his trunks, baking under the sun, Elio walks directly up to him and sits by his foot. 

"Hello," he greets, nonchalant, glancing around his mother's orchard. 

Oliver startles and crunches up, letting his sunglasses drop to the edge of his nose to get a better look at him. Elio meets his gaze head on, daring him. 

"Hi," Oliver sits up, his breathing rapidly getting shallow as Elio watches the rise and fall of his chest. 

"Do I make you nervous?" 

The approach is unforgiving. Elio considers momentarily to go a little easier on their guest, but he beats him to it. 

"Yes," 

"Why is that?" 

"I don't have the words for it." 

"Then why tell me at all?" 

Oliver breaks their stare to look down on the water. "Because I thought you should know." 

It's only then that Elio understands, and it makes the thrill flare in his gut. "Ah, you mean you want me to know." Oliver turns his face to the opposite direction, hiding, so Elio mercifully settles with the curt admission for now. "Later?" 

Oliver laughs, humorless and only out of surprise, but he returns it anyway. "Later!" 

Elio leaves Oliver by the pool, content not of the brief answer, but the sheer honesty that he's given. He could've easily dodged the interrogation, or even brushed him off. Elio has seen him do it, politely or bluntly, to conversations and people that he's uninterested to hold. The way he's treated differently shouldn't please him as it is doing now, and certainly it's not Oliver's intention either, yet it's all that occupies Elio's mind. What does Oliver see in him that makes him fold in his presence? 

There are still a couple of weeks ahead. Elio supposes they have time to figure it out down the road. 

In the meantime, he shifts his focus to his music, finding the pile on his desk in his room. He's in the middle of Bach at the moment, and the amount of pump in him convinces him of a productive day. Whistling, Elio slides across his floor, spinning, then pulls the chair and wears the headphones over his ears. The papers are neatly clipped together, and it's only until he's holding them in his hands that he realizes the music is nearly done, far from how he remembers it as barely started at all. 

Elio looks to the walls, following the abstract figures formed through the touch of the light on the paint. Up. Around. 

The bell tolls, Mafalda calling them for dinner, and Elio wakes, startling on his desk where he's hunched over. It's unlike him to fall asleep in the midst of transcribing, but judging by the scores in his hands, he seems to have accomplished plenty. Elio stretches on the chair, taking off his headphones and using it as paperweight for his music. Idly, he wonders if he should alert their guest of the meaning of the bells, but then given the way he reacted during their introduction over breakfast, Elio thinks the better of it and heeds his father's insight that he should wait until their guest warms up to him. 

Elio's childhood was heavily surrounded by academics, which meant that he's never taken seriously by the adults around him, while the ones his age don't share his interests. Usually, it's the summer guests who would fall comfortably between those two categories; under his academic father, but still above the well-read son. Curiously, Oliver skitters at his very presence. Maybe it's hasty to brand the response as such, given that they're only introduced that morning, but it's still quite a strong impulse coming from him. Elio wouldn't call it intimidation, but to bypass the term leaves him with nothing else to go by. 

"Where is he?" Elio asks as he arrives in the dining hall, noticing an empty spot on the table. 

His mother shrugs casually, seated on the right of his father. "Out, maybe? Dancing?" 

"Already?" Elio exclaims, amused. "He just got here this morning." 

Samuel nods, contemplating. Elio worries that he's offended his father with the solemness of his expression. "He seems to enjoy people's company." 

"Is this you telling me to play the tour guide for him?" 

"Would that be so bad, darling?" 

"I don't think he likes me." 

Anella looks over Samuel, and they share a message to each other with a brief glance. "Isn't it too early to say that?" 

"Let's see, then." 

Elio doesn’t see their guest until the next day, when he’s looking for his father to consult about his coming term for his postgraduate studies. Oliver is sitting on the couch in the study, comparing manuscripts and completely taken by it that he doesn’t notice his new company. It’s easy to disappear in their villa considering its size, but Elio can’t recall one guest who wouldn’t want to be seen. It’s always better to leave a mark, is the impression that Elio gets from them, which he doesn’t disagree with in the slightest. After all, his father has been doing this for over two decades now. It’s easy to be lost in the blur of faces that have come and go over the course of the summers. 

“Hello,” he greets warmly, smiling at their guest. “Any chance you’d know where my father is?” 

Oliver jumps at the sound of his voice, then fails entirely in gathering his composure as he clears his throat and fidgets in his seat. “Same question, actually.” 

“Can I ask you, then?” 

“About?” 

Elio looks over the chair behind his father’s desk, questioning. “Do you mind if I linger?” 

“It’s your house.” Oliver answers, motioning for him to sit. 

By the moment he’s seated, Elio changes his mind. “Did I do something?” 

“Come again?” 

“Over breakfast? Yesterday, when we’re introduced? Did I offend you?” 

With the way that Oliver is looking at him, one might believe that Elio has strewn insults at their guests and left the manuscripts in ashes at his feet. 

“Yesterday?” Oliver’s voice breaks and he clears his throat again, then turns away to busy himself with gathering his papers. “Not at all. I’m sorry if I gave you that impression.” 

Elio knows that it’ll only take a second before Oliver escapes him again, making him feel increasingly ridiculous by inserting himself in the quiet space that their guest has carved for himself to continue with his publication. “It doesn’t seem like it,” he presses, fixing him with a look. 

“Well, now you’re giving me a reason.” 

“Do you hate me so, Oliver?” 

When Oliver meets Elio’s eyes, his face has already fallen, even more openly expressive than the last. It twists and grips his heart, as though he’s hit with the pain that Oliver has openly shown on his face the moment he turns. Elio doesn’t expect this, nothing of the sort from a complete stranger who has probably only known him from a passing mention of his father. It’s not hate, as it’s clearly indicated with the raw despair in Oliver’s face; it’s heartbreak. 

Elio shrinks on his chair. “I shouldn’t have said anything.” 

Somehow, it’s the right thing to say. The corners of his lips twitch, but the hint of the smile is melancholy. “Just pretend you never did.” 

“Does that mean we’re on speaking terms but not really?” Elio pries, and Oliver’s smile takes over his face. 

“What do you think I’ll say?” 

“I don’t know. Tell me that we can’t talk about these things?” 

“And how do you come up with this?” 

How, indeed. Elio attempts to trace his train of thoughts, realizing abruptly that it’s not a response coming from himself, but rather a memorized conversation from a distant past. It must have shown on his face as openly as Oliver has allowed his sorrow to display, and he sets down the papers to stand by him, waiting. 

It’s only a rhetorical question. Oliver might not even expect anything more than a witty quip in return, but Elio can’t seem to stop the sudden spiral of his thoughts; pictures flitting faster than he can grasp, words murmured in hushes too low for him to comprehend. With what little he manages, Elio sees Oliver, in the World War I memorial, standing on the other side, then another down at the river, barely visible over the water with the distance between them. More comes after, but the flash of white, hot pain jolts him and he loses the montage. 

Elio looks to the shelves, reading each title on the spine one by one. Up. Around. There are hands clasping his shoulders, shaking him. The trance breaks, and Elio resumes. 

“Elio! Elio!”

The urgency startles him, and he finds a stranger bafflingly close to his face. Blond, blue-eyed, golden with an open shirt and skin everywhere. 

“I’m sorry, who are you?” Elio carefully picks the man’s fingers off of him, who in turn doesn’t resist in the slightest. 

There’s a dejected look on his face, just on top of the devastation as he watches Elio drop his hands to his knees where they’re planted on the floor. Elio wonders if he should allow the man the touch, if only he could relieve him of the pitiable state of his heart that he’s wearing so openly. 

“Is something wrong? Maybe I can help.” 

The man scoffs. Elio can tell it’s an attempt to push out a laugh, which he fails and only manages to sound scornful of his offer. 

“No, nothing’s wrong.” The man tells him, holding his gaze. “But I don’t wish for it to be like this, either.” 

The steady fall of rain hammers on the roof of the villa, the strong gushes of wind that come with it pushing the windows of his room against the wall, slapping loudly against the concrete. Some days are as such in their small town in northern Italy, but it's too much to process when the haze of sleep hasn't completely dissipated yet. 

Add to the downpour is the clatter down the kitchen; Mafalda moving efficiently to get their breakfast ready. Elio struggles to open his eyes, heavily confused by the storm when he's calibrated his consciousness of a summer stay in their villa. It's cool enough that he bundles the blanket up to his neck, which he tightens his grip of as he tries to reacquaint himself with his little room, as though it will shield him from anything that's unexpected in the familiar space that he hasn't been to since the previous winter. There are certainly more than a few things that have changed, primarily the arrangement of his personal clutter. Elio can't recall when it escapes him, but he's definitely not allowed to take up this much of the room. After all, his father will be expecting a guest soon. 

Elio had known weeks prior of the arrival of a certain American colleague of his father, but the knowledge certainly doesn't include a good sense to prepare for it. This means that he has to pick up half of the room and transfer it to the other side of the bathroom and into the smaller, cramped bedroom with hardly anything but a wardrobe and a bed. 

He gets up, sighing heavily, then begins to pick up the books on the floor, on the chair, on the bedside table, slipping them carelessly into the shelf mounted on his wall. Elio notices scribbles on pages that he pins on the board, knowing logically that it's his but not knowing when he put them up and what for exactly. It doesn't harm anybody, so he supposes it can stay. He turns to the wardrobe and takes out the light blue billowy shirt that he likes the most, finding comfort in the baggy clothing when their weather has decided to be temperamental. The sleeves go past his hands, and the hem falls mid-thigh, nearly the same as the shorts he wears around. Elio closes it on himself, sighing. 

Careful knocks come on his door. He knows immediately that it's his mother. 

"Elio? Are you awake?" 

Elio goes to his door and opens it, his intent to greet her with a kiss crumbling when he finds her worriedly staring. "Maman?" 

"Comment tu te sens?" 

"Uh, assez bien?" 

Anella sighs, nodding, then cradles his cheek in her hands. Elio doesn't understand why his mother would look at him with great concern. It's only a storm, nothing they haven't had before, least of all his mother. Perhaps it's a natural instinct that parents never quite shake off no matter what; any source of potential threat and the first response is to find their child. Elio smiles at the thought, pulling his mother in an embrace and kissing her hair. 

The door swings on the other end of the hallway, and a man steps out, dressed casually in a tee and shorts. 

"Qui est-ce?" Elio asks his mother, his confusion growing more and more and it's only morning. 

Anella takes a moment to stare at the stranger before she answers. "Oliver," she supplies; a wistful tone in her voice, then looks back to Elio. 

"L'usurpateur," he whispers conspiringly, releasing his mother to greet their guest. "Good morning," 

The man freezes in the middle of the corridor, as if immobility will get him out of sight. Elio chuckles, ready to tease as he approaches the man, then startles when he sees his mother walking by his side in a hurry. 

"This is your father's guest, Oliver," she says softly, as if breaking a delicate news. 

"Elio, nice to meet you." He offers his hand even though the man is still sideways in front of him, facing the wall. "Sorry, does this feel like an ambush? I swear I didn't mean to." 

To his credit, at least their guest tries to laugh, but it's clearly not genuine. Up close, Elio gets the chance to study his features; a mop of blond hair, clear blue eyes, perfectly tanned skin, tall. He looks sophisticated, even in this state in the early morning. 

"Oliver," he replies, taking his hand and squeezing once. 

Elio turns his head to the room where their guest steps out from, expecting a storage area but seeing a furnished room with a full sized bed and a wardrobe on the wall, a desk and a bookshelf beside it; the impressionist painting from the professor in Sapienza hanging over the bed. 

"I forgot that we renovated this." He says absently, staring at the shoes carelessly strewn under the floor, the suitcase at the foot of the bed, the shirts hanging on the frame. 

His mother strokes his hair, pushing them away from his face. It gets his attention and he looks back at her, then their guest. 

"Breakfast?" Elio offers, smiling. 

Oliver stares a moment too long, but Elio forgets his quip when the man returns his smile, subtle and soft, just a little upturn of his lips. "Okay," he replies, and off they go. 

Anella leaves their little group when they reach the staircase landing, giving Elio a light squeeze on the arm and a curt smile to Oliver, then heads towards the kitchen. They make small talk with each other, Oliver informing him that it's not the first time he's done this for his father. It's new information for Elio, as he has never heard of a returning guest in all the summers before, but given the initial impression he gets from Oliver, he can effortlessly believe that the man is a very well loved colleague. 

It starts with his appearance; tall, dashing, and easy on the eyes - maybe a little overwhelming since he's underdressed and still strikingly sure of himself - on top of his paradoxical airy eloquence that simultaneously takes Elio by surprise and rubs him the wrong way. That's not to say that he thinks their guest is brazen and haughty. There's a force about Oliver that commands the room, and the fact that Elio is drawn by his pull is perplexing when he's all but exposed to countless prominent figures in the academe over the course of his life.

The breakfast table is much livelier than the depressing weather that their guest happens upon on his very first day. Elio sees the ease and familiarity with which Oliver moves around his family; definitely a dear friend at this point. It makes him regret missing his visit on his first summer, thrilled with the idea of being a part of the bubble and rediscovering their bond the second time around. Even Mafalda is fond of Oliver, attentive to his needs and preferences as they communicate in short Italian phrases. 

“Let me,” Elio throws a smile at Oliver, reaching for the egg and cracking the top for him. They’re sitting on the same side of the table, across his parents, and he feels all of their eyes on him as though trying to be a good host is a thing of marvel about him. He looks up, raising a brow at his father then tilting his head at his mother, then slides the egg cup to Oliver, who’s watching him with undisguised astonishment. “What? Has no one ever done this for you?” 

Oliver laughs, the most authentic he’s given Elio despite their constant chatter. “I just didn’t think it’d happen again, is all.” 

“Care to get used to it?” 

“Oh, that’s dangerous.” 

There’s an ominous undertone from the way that Oliver says it, making Elio check to confirm his hunch. Instead, he finds their guest staring at him with shocking rawness as he openly conveys his delight, and Elio feels helpless but returns the smile and nudges him with his shoulder. They continue their meal jovially, Oliver expressing his dismay over the weather as he’s been looking forward to swimming down by the river or sunbathing by the pool. Elio offers to keep him company, though he doesn’t claim to be a very good one. The most they’d do if Oliver accepts his invitation is read side by side or debate about a certain book, or maybe Elio will play a piece for him but that’s hardly very entertaining for a lot of people. 

Their fluid rapport pleases his parents, Elio notes, but he also can’t shake off  the underlying concern that they have as they watch him and Oliver across the table. It’s only a quick flash that’s gone before he can overanalyze it, but then for his parents to bug him endlessly about going out and meeting new people, the fleeting reaction certainly baffles him. That, or he’s simply reading too much into things, and even though his parents did look concerned, it might not be directed towards him at all. Despite the storm, Elio has high hopes for the day, and he willingly brushes it off since it doesn’t make a reappearance when he invites Oliver to the living room. 

Elio doesn’t have a plan at all. It’s unlike him to want to keep company, especially of their guests, considering that they’re usually plenty occupied with their research to want any sort of distraction. Oliver doesn’t even think twice about it, following him inside and waiting expectantly on what he’ll do. 

There’s nothing he can offer, but the piano is right across the furniture where Oliver sits comfortably on, and he stops wondering from there. If anything, this is what he’s confidently good at, so he moves to the instrument, gives one last glance over at Oliver, and starts playing. 

It’s Bach - young Bach, specifically - a piece famously believed to be dedicated to his brother, soft and melodic. It’s a personal favorite of his, no matter anyone’s impression that it’s simple and ordinary. One might even say that he’s biasedly fond of it. Elio will not deny that claim, but if asked to reason why, he doubts that he can provide a straight answer. Some things simply, irrevocably feel right, and to him this piece is one of those. 

When he begins to trail off, Oliver speaks. “Could you play that if Liszt altered Bach’s version?” 

Elio feels his entire face bloom, awed and astounded over the request. “If you wish,” he replies, and then begins to play. 

The difference is subtle, but it’s there. If Oliver can ask of something like this, then Elio trusts that he can tell. 

“Is that satisfactory?” He asks, putting his hands on his hips as he twists his torso to look at him. 

Oliver has a certain smile, teasing, cheeky, confident. “And if Busoni played it and altered Liszt’s version?” 

Elio laughs, loud and unreserved. “Are you making me impress you?” 

“Can you?” 

They stare at each other some more; an exhilarating exchange. Oliver is so sure of himself, so comfortable in his own skin, unfazed by the notoriously intimidating and aloof son of his host. It takes his breath away, and he’s powerless in the face of this onslaught, so eager and daring. Elio puts his fingers back on the keys, and passionately hits every note to comply with Oliver's request. 

“How did I do?” Elio asks, knowing full well he’s done magnificently. 

“It’s not bad.” 

Their laughter rings in the hall and undoubtedly carries over the otherwise silent villa. Elio thinks Oliver may be the best one yet. 

They spend an alarming amount of time together following their little game in the living room. Somehow, they naturally gravitate towards each other at any point of the day. Elio does keep up with cracking the egg for him every morning, much to everyone’s amusement, as it leaves Oliver to consume at least one every single time. It’s a little consolation on the side, but in his core Elio does it as naturally as anything else. Once the weather clears up, Oliver is almost always outdoors, swimming in the pool, lying on the grass, tanning under the sun. Whether he’s reviewing his manuscripts or reading a book, he’ll always opt to do it somewhere in the yard, shirtless and golden. 

Elio has been considered much of an indoor kid growing up, as he has always preferred his own company than anyone else’s. Evidently, there’s a magnificent shift in the grand scheme of things in this one summer. He actively seeks out Oliver and stays within his presence, whether they would speak or simply share a space. It’s comforting even if they only have silence to spare for each other, exciting when they debate certain passages or opinions about anything that comes their way as they speak. 

Out of a random urge one morning, Elio gets up at the break of dawn when the sky is still grim and grayish, without yet the ray of light warming the landscape of their villa. He slips on a pair of running shoes, washing his face to wake himself completely even though his spirit doesn’t need the splash of cold water to shake it. It’s an otherwise routinely activity that he cheerfully ignores whenever he’s here for the summer, opting for endless bathing and swimming instead. The drive to run is almost as rare as an inspiration for productivity, so Elio takes advantage of it while it’s there. 

To his surprise, Oliver is already in the yard, stretching. 

“Out for a run?” He stalks to his side in casual strides, startling him a little. 

Oliver looks at him and smiles, warm and welcoming. “Yup,” he releases his toes and straightens, standing on one foot. “You don’t usually go.” 

“Do you wait for me to?” 

“One can hope.” 

It’s this exactly that Elio will definitely miss once Oliver leaves. He’s no longer a kid who can’t see things for what they are, and he can definitely spot flirting from across the room. With Oliver, there’s hardly any need to. He would turn to Elio, open his mouth, and speak so suggestively that it floors him every time. Elio shakes his head fondly, wondering how can a stranger work his way into his affection so easily when it’s only been a couple of days. 

“I just had the urge, is all. Maybe I woke up on the right side of the bed, or the wrong side. We’ll find out.” 

“Is everything okay?” 

Elio smiles, touched by the concern in his voice. His introversion has entailed self-sufficiency, and throughout his life, even with the lovers he’s had, no one has been quite this attentive to him as Oliver is. 

“Me okay,” he answers. 

There’s a path around the villa that Oliver follows seamlessly, and it’s only until they’re on their way back that Elio realizes it’s the exact same trail that he goes on in the rare moments that he feels like jogging. It’s strange, given that there’s nothing to indicate the way but only one’s familiarity with the landscape, yet here he is. Elio considers asking Oliver as they round the corner back to the yard, but the significant height difference puts him at a disadvantage, and he trails behind, breathless, whereas Oliver closes the distance effortlessly. 

They part in the hallway going to their rooms, Oliver clapping a hand on his shoulder and dismissing him with his standard “Later!” Elio watches him until he disappears into his room, inexplicably bothered even though there’s nothing out of ordinary in their morning jog, save for his very presence that’s nearly unheard of for that early in the morning. Elio shakes it off, chiding himself for overthinking, then goes into his own room to prepare for the day. 

Breakfast goes on as usual; Elio cracking Oliver’s egg delicately and passing it to him as they sit side by side, his parents chatting animatedly over anything. It’s a lazy day for Oliver, his father informing him that his publication is coming along beautifully and he’s done more work to earn him a day or two off of it. Still, Oliver insists on working on something, informing Samuel that he’s rather motivated to work, and so they spend the rest of the day holed up in his father’s study; flipping through pages and pictures in the projector, reading, writing. Elio keeps out of their way and opts to find his music. Bach sounds like a good idea at that time, and he follows his gut to transcribe it. 

The drive itself is there, but Elio can’t seem to put his focus on the task at hand. His mind keeps wandering to Oliver, their friendship, his affinity for Elio, his humor, his intelligence. Him. Elio will never confidently claim to know himself fully, yet if anything, he’d admit that his connection to Oliver is steadily growing to an attraction. He doesn’t think it’s a bad thing, even if Oliver is on borrowed time. As far as he knows, Oliver teaches at Columbia University, and he’ll return to Juilliard in the upcoming semester. It couldn’t be that hard to figure things out from there, but he’s getting ahead of himself at this point. 

It’s definitely there at the very first day on the piano, when Oliver all but swept him off of his feet with his dares. Elio can’t recall a moment that thrilled him more than that, and that’s saying something, since he’s a professional. Perhaps it’s the lack of predictability that draws him in. Oliver is tumultuous, in his opinion, no matter how agreeable he is in the company of others. Now that he’s more familiar with the man, Elio can catch the little signs of his boredom, his irritation, his amusement, in the little movements of the lines on his face, the slight twitches of his lips, the focus or the lack of it in his eyes. It’s hard to keep his interest for long, even more so to impress him, and it’s that very quality that makes Elio want to bend over backwards to receive a sliver of validation from their guest. 

Is it an ego boost that he’s looking for? A little, he’d admit. The bottomline is, is he attracted to Oliver? Most definitely. Elio blows out a huge gulp of air, frustrated. He has a feeling it will only escalate from here. 

It drives him a little over the edge that Oliver is neck-deep in work for the following days. It’s not even his publication, but a couple of his father’s parcels coming in containing this and that and naturally, in exchange for this summer, Oliver will put in a couple of hours in his day to help. There are a couple of times when Elio tries to make himself useful in the study; categorizing, sorting, cleaning, yet none of them truly fulfilling. Even if Oliver is obviously aware of this, it only seems to spur him on by making himself more and more scarce, and he doesn’t shy about getting his point across, smirking unabashedly to himself as Elio grows huffily irked. Maybe it’s another game that Oliver is putting him under, or maybe he’s deliberately putting a distance between them to rein in Elio’s eagerness to be around him. Elio would be dramatically opposed to that, when Oliver started it all. 

When he happens upon Oliver by the fireplace one night, Elio doesn't pass up the opportunity and takes a seat across him, distant enough to provide him space if he wants it, but making himself evidently available. 

"You're reading Heptameron?" Elio asks, amused, as he reads the title of the book in Oliver's hand. 

Oliver flips the book and looks at the cover, returning his grin. "Not really. It's in German." 

"I can translate for you." Elio doesn't wait for an answer as he stands up to walk over Oliver, making a seat on the armrest and plucking the volume from his hand. "Do you mind?" 

Oliver is wide-eyed and flustered by their proximity, something Elio wouldn't ever think to be possible. He shakes his head, gulping audibly, and Elio takes his cue. 

"Ein gutaussehender junger Ritter  ist  wahnsinnig verliebt  in  eine  Prinzessin.  Sie auch  ist  in  ihn  verliebt." Elio begins somberly, keeping an even tone as he leans on the back of the chair, slightly bent to the side and letting Oliver's shoulder dig on his flank. "A handsome young knight is madly in love with a princess. She too is in love with him." 

For whatever reason, Oliver seems to have frozen on his side, even more terribly so than the first time in the corridor when Elio found him, freshly out of bed and dressed comfortably. He doesn't let it deter him, knowing full well that there's no other time for him to get this out of the way but now. 

"Obwohl es so scheint, als sei sie sich nicht völlig ihrer eigenen Liebe bewusst." Elio continues unflinchingly, mindfully keeping his attention away from Oliver. "Though  she seems not to be entirely aware of it. Despite the friendship that  blossoms between them, or perhaps because of that very friendship, the young knight finds himself so humbled that he is totally unable to bring up the subject of his love." He snaps the book shut, dropping it on Oliver's lap. 

Standing up, Elio stands in front of the fireplace, empty and clear for the summer, then turns across to stare at his piano. He continues the story from memory. "One day, he asks the princess point-blank: Ich bitte euch, ratet mir, was besser ist, reden oder sterben?" He sees the conflict and turmoil openly displayed on Oliver's face when he looks at the man, but he lands the blow anyway. "Is it better to speak or to die?" 

Elio supposes he can drop it now. They understood each other. The message is clear. Oliver is in the process of taking this in, and he allows Elio to witness as every emotion plays out on his face. They hold each other's eyes, one pair determined, the other dumbfounded. 

"Better to speak, she said, but he fudges." Elio narrates, keeping himself passive even if his blood burns under his skin. "What do you think?" 

Oliver is absolutely at his mercy, a first in the two weeks that he's in the company of their guest. Somehow, Elio knows that it will do nothing if Oliver decides to drop his offer at his feet and stomp on it. 

"Are you that scared of what I think?" Oliver prompts, regaining his bravado and jutting his chin out. The dynamic shifts, and even though he's sitting down, he makes Elio feel smaller and stared down. 

Mostly, because he worded it so perfectly that it diminishes the steam that drove Elio to get to this point. He smiles, dejected, slowly coming to terms with the answer even if he hasn't heard it yet. He knows. They will always know. 

"I'd say you'd follow the knight, but feel free to prove me wrong." 

"Does that make me a coward in your eyes?" 

"A coward? You?" Elio scoffs at the idea. "Never, Oliver, but I'll do you one more accurately. You're a traitor." 

He doesn't wait for an answer this time. Elio breaks their gaze, spins on his heels and traces his way back to his own room, ready to retire for the day, yet wishing vehemently for Oliver to follow him, grab him by the arm or by the waist, and prove him to be spectacularly wrong. 

The door to his room enters his line of sight, then he walks to it until his hand is on the wood, pushing it open. Elio makes it to his bed, and without Oliver on his trail. Later that night, when he hears the door on the opposite end of the hallway click shut, he sighs, pulling the blanket under his chin, then closes his eyes. 

Elio takes the next day for himself. He doesn't get up in the morning for breakfast, transcribes music until past lunch, goes down in the afternoon for his first meal of the day which he takes back to his bedroom and eats there. Mafalda goes up to his door to check on him at some point, and he only politely asks her to bring him a jug of water, but otherwise he's fine. In the evening, he hears the guests talking in Italian, maybe another colleague of his father. He tries to listen in more closely, but the way they're fluently going in Italian tells him that Oliver can't be there. It's nearly bedtime when he gets out of his room and finds a meal that Mafalda has set aside for him. He eats the meat carelessly with his hand, then bites the bread in between, not bothering with reheating it. Despite having consumed so little throughout the day, Elio still leaves his serving unfinished, then moves to the piano and begins to play. 

What happened between him and Oliver in the same room the day before will never be something that Elio regrets. In fact, he's rather pleased that they're able to get it through. He doesn't consider his behavior for the rest of a day as avoidance. If anything, he only wants a moment to be at peace and lick his wounds in quiet. Perhaps nothing will really come out of it, and a part of him is aware of that, despite his lack of acknowledgement. However, Elio isn't inexperienced, and he knows for a fact that what's holding Oliver back isn't the fact that he doesn't want to. It seems more like he thinks that he shouldn't, and it infuriates Elio as much as it disheartens him. 

The piano takes the brunt of his agitation; his music carrying over the entire villa in the dead of the night. Elio only stops when his fingers begin to slip and his vision starts to dim, his consciousness fighting to keep up with his playing while desperately conveying its need to sleep. Eventually, he gives in and pushes off the instrument. He retires to his room, decidedly putting the day behind him. That's not to say he doesn't feel like he's cracked right down the middle. 

"Può ripetere per favore," 

"Amore  ma è  americano." 

Elio had known weeks prior of the arrival of a certain American colleague of his father, but he'd never count on him to have decent Italian, let alone follow the rapid conversation at the breakfast table. He huffs, amused, listening to the storm of words shouted over one another first thing in the morning. It seems like their family friends, and his parents by extension, aren't making a very good impression on their guest for the summer. 

It's not a good look on him either to miss breakfast, especially if one will find out that he's a twenty-four postgraduate student, but Elio will gladly pass on breakfast this morning. Instead, he lies on bed longer, closing his eyes to listen to the commotion. They're talking about philosophy, which he's certain that their guest will have no problem keeping up with if it's only in his language. Still, the longer he listens, the more he's impressed with how the man holds himself in the discussion. He's a tad slower in forming his sentences, and he asks a lot of supplying vocabulary, yet not only does he get his point across, he can even do it properly. Elio stays in his bed, laughing and shaking his head, until his mother calls for the breakfast table to be cleared, their guests ushered inside to linger a bit more, his father's summer student thanking everyone, then jovially announces "Later!" 

"Later?" Elio repeats to his ceiling, scowling. He's never heard of it being used by anyone in lieu of a goodbye. It sounds harsh and dismissive, as though he's coolly feigning a casual demeanor to conceal his eagerness to escape. He wonders how his parents feel about that, their concern for European pleasantries and all. 

Everything has already calmed down by the time he decides to leave his room, swinging his door open and finding a man, blond, blue-eyed, golden and towering over him, hands in his pockets and inexplicably anxious. 

"Hello?" He greets tentatively, folding the front of the unbuttoned billowy shirt that's sizes too big on him, closing it over his torso consciously. 

The man, from worry, goes to dreadful shock, then breaks their stare to look to the sides. Elio startles, realizing his identity and getting flustered. He steps away from the door, motioning him to come inside, then he sees the state his room is in and flushes hot. 

"Sorry about the mess," he apologizes bashfully, picking up the clutter. "I'm Elio, by the way. Are your bags still downstairs? We'll have to share a bathroom, I'll be next door - uhm, excuse me?" 

The man blinks rapidly, breaking his intent staring and clearing his throat. "Sorry, I got a little taken aback. It's Oliver, and I'm already given the room on the opposite end."

Confused, Elio drops the books in his hand on the bed and walks to the hallway where the man stands, then peeks to the door down the corridor that he's sure is a spare room that's in a worse condition than his own. 

"It's ready?" 

"Yes," 

"Oh, well, you're lucky. That's a first. Is there anything…?" 

"No, nothing. I'm sorry, that's too sudden." Oliver looks down at his feet, sheepish, then lifts his head to meet his eyes once again. "I just thought it's better to speak." 

"Certainly, yes. It's nice to meet you, Oliver." 

"You, too. Later!" 

Better to speak, Elio thinks as he watches their guest walk away, and for whatever reason, it makes him smirk. 

Despite how Oliver went out of his way to greet him on that very first day, they don't seem to get on with each other very much. He's not rude, per se, but it's also not polite to avoid your host's son like the plague. For a villa that size, one would think they'll have plenty of space to not run into each other, but somehow their interests align pretty well. Oliver will always be outdoors, reading, swimming, tanning, napping, if he's not folded on a chair in the study reading, writing, revising. 

Elio feels unapologetic for his presence. It's his house. He takes books from his father's study and makes himself comfortable on the couch, no matter if Oliver is already there and warily glancing at him out of the corner of his eyes. It usually won't take very long before he slips out of the room and never returns. It's easy to let it fly past for any other reason, but other times that Elio is outdoors first as Oliver is only stepping out of the villa, shirtless, the man would disappear and emerge fully clothed, and instead of sunbathing or swimming he will opt to take the bike and escape to the town. 

There's a couple of times when Elio tries to engage him in a conversation. It can't be small talk, he finds, because Oliver is shamelessly uninterested with anything under the category. What keeps him in place for longer than five minutes is an extensive, intelligent discussion, sometimes from a feigned offhand comment from Elio when he manages a glimpse on his manuscript, other times it's a deliberate attempt to get him to interact by fishing out a passage from memory. No matter which way Elio goes about it, Oliver will still escape him, and so seamlessly at that, threading their brief conversations so beautifully that Elio loses himself and before he knows it, he's dismissed with a curt "Later!" 

"Non vi sembra ineducato come dice Later? Arrogante?" 

His parents exchange glances, then his mother eyes the empty spot on the table assigned for Oliver, who is seemingly making a habit of missing dinner. 

"You don't like him?" Samuel asks. 

It's not that. Elio wants Oliver to like him, to change his opinion of him and think that he's a worthy company after all. 

"No, I don't think so." 

Anella shushes him, unwilling to let him run his mouth about their guest despite his absence. 

"Mi  sembra che  facciamo  di  tutto  per  farlo stare a suo agio  da  noi." Elio continues, glaring across the table where Oliver is supposed to be. 

There's a hand on his shoulder, rubbing soothingly, but his parents remain quiet about it so as to not fuel his irritation. Instead, Anella calls Mafalda, motioning at Oliver's plates. 

"Può  togliere  i  piatti  di  Oliver?" She instructs, and they continue their dinner as such. 

Nothing changes, which he fully expects, but it doesn't stop his exasperation from growing. Elio goes on with his day by transcribing his music, playing the piano when the mood strikes, picking up a book, swimming in the pool. There comes a point where he feels over it, ignoring Oliver's presence when they happen upon each other in the same room, sitting on the opposite side of the table when they're eating, leaving when he shows up. It might just be how things will be between them, and surely six long weeks will fly past if he just agrees with Oliver's method of dealing with him. 

It can't be anything he's done, as far as he can tell. In fact, there hasn't even been a chance for Elio to offend their guest for him to be this aloof. Maybe it's a natural aversion, which Elio can't cope with considering his upbringing; surrounded by both their guests and their neighbors, sought and adored. He's never been on the receiving end of this blunt dismissal that he has unthinkingly given to everyone else before. It stings. 

And so he settles to watching their guest from afar, observing his demeanor and impulses, listening to his eloquence as he discusses with his father, noting his small ticks in response to his surroundings. Elio feels entirely powerless against the pull of his attraction to Oliver, then resigned over the fact that his company is resolutely unwanted. Hopelessly, the one thing that he can do spectacularly well, Oliver doesn't even bother with. There'd been a couple of times that Elio has played around him, piano and guitar, but he only takes a pause, listens momentarily, then turns on his feet to leave. 

Why he desperately wants Oliver's approval, he can't answer, but it's clear that he yearns it nonetheless. If not, then Elio will settle for a word or two, even the barest of an answer. How can he take one look at him, and decide for the rest of his stay that he's repulsive? Elio sighs. It's going to be an excruciating summer. 

More guests come and go, as is common in their household; his parents being beloved hosts in their town. Oliver has a natural affinity with people; effortlessly charismatic and breathtakingly intelligent. Even his father is taken by him, giving him the time to express himself and proudly glancing over the other guests on their table, knowing entirely that he has someone incredible, nevermind that he hates his own son.

Hate, his parents would insist, is a strong word to use. His father once came up to him, telling him to allow some more time for Oliver, he's just shy, he'll warm up eventually. Elio is no longer a child, he knows contempt when he sees it. Still, his father insists. 

"Papa," Elio pinches the bridge of his nose, frustrated. "It's not that. He thinks he's too good for me." 

"Did he tell you that?" 

"Must he? He doesn't hide it." 

"He's just-" 

"He's not shy, papa." 

"Unsure." 

Elio rolls his eyes. They drop the topic, Elio snatching his scores on the table, continuing with his transcribing elsewhere. 

They don't interact at all for the following days. It's strangely peaceful when they'd mutually agreed to avoid each other. Elio manages to finish the books he'd always wanted to put away, or writes enough music to give him a false sense of security when his term begins. He wouldn't know the progress that Oliver has made, but if he's out and about even half as much as he thinks he is, then Elio thinks it won't be a lot. It doesn't upset him anymore, either. He's decided to wait it out until Oliver is out of the house, and he may then resume his life and forget that this summer ever occurred. 

Late at night, Elio has an idea for his music, forcing him out of his room and down where the piano is. On his way, he passes by his father's study, curiously still lit, that he walks closer to see if it's left on accidentally. Out of all the ways that could confirm to him of anyone's presence in the room, he never would've thought it to be quiet, heartwrenching sobs. 

"-regret it. I regret it so much," Oliver chants between his shallow breaths, slightly muffled as he comes to Elio's view, sitting on the scarlet couch on one end, his father on the other. "If only I could take it back, if I'd had half of his courage. I wish I'd been as good as him." 

Samuel smiles, sad and introspective. "He said the same thing about you, nearly the exact same thing." 

"And may I know what you told him?" 

"I don't think that's relevant now, because if he listened, we wouldn't be here." 

"It's a night full of regret." 

Samuel huffs silently, catching the irony. "If I recall correctly, I had warned him about our tendency to rip ourselves in order to heal faster, and each time there's someone new, we have less to offer. It's a waste - making oneself feel nothing so as to not feel anything."

Elio watches as Oliver slowly closes his eyes, each word driving  itself deeper and deeper into him that he can no longer suppress the anguish as he releases a shaky breath. It dawns on him, slowly, that they're talking about him. He remembers it, somehow, though distant enough to feel like it's someone else's, but he can grasp the threads of this conversation in his head if he tries hard enough. 

"I'd only wanted what's best for him." Oliver confesses silently, his tears spilling on his cheeks and dropping on the upturned palms on his lap. 

"Have you come to realize that you're the best of each other?" 

"I'm only as good if it was by his side." 

"Parce que c’etait lui,  parce que c’etait moi." 

The exchange sends Elio reeling, unable to categorize the memory that's flooding his mind. There's more that's being said in front of him, but they're not too far from the ones that's coming back to him. It's too much and too fast, and he struggles to dwell on one before it flips again and spirals out of control. 

Elio looks to the ground, tracing the faint lines on the stone. Up. Around. Blood spills into his mouth when the skin splits from biting. The trance breaks, and Elio resumes.

"Sweetheart, why are you up?" His mother comes to his side, taking him in her arm as she stops on his side. "It's not good to eavesdrop." 

Elio frowns, offended by the assumption. "I only thought that the lights were left by accident." 

Anella glances inside and finds Oliver with his face in his palms, and then Samuel, sitting beside him and offering the comfort of his company. 

"They're talking about me." He tells her, letting himself be taken away from standing by the doorway of his father's study. 

"And did you like what you heard?" 

"I don't remember when it was, but I know it was me." 

It halts Anella on her steps, turning to him and holding each side of his face with her hands. "What is it?" 

"That I sat where Oliver sits now. I was talking to papa, and he told me these things he's telling him now and, and - mom, it hurts." 

"Do you - do you want to talk to him? Oliver?" 

"I don't think I can."

"Okay, that's okay." 

Elio's awareness returns to him only when he's already getting tucked in his bed, his mother smiling down at him and soothing his pounding head with tender rubs on his temple. 

It's only past midnight when Elio stirs in his sleep, disoriented as he suddenly rises to full consciousness way before dawn. His body gives him little indication of wanting to return to sleep, and he can't force it to come to him when he's grown into full awareness of his surroundings. Usually, Elio would find his piano or guitar, the soft music always welcome in their villa at any hour. Instead of following this practice, he throws on the soft, billowy shirt that he specifically seeks in his wardrobe, then heads out to the garden. 

Elio likes coming out here on hours on end at night when he doesn't feel like turning to his music, mostly just sitting on the tall stone fence, looking over the villa and to the sky. It's therapeutic, a strange kind of comfort that he can't place. To his surprise, someone has beat him to the spot; sitting where he likes, leaning back on the concrete. 

"Hello," he greets, looking up at the man. 

The man turns, giving Elio a faint view to his features that the moonlight reaches. "That shirt," he scoffs with a shake of his head. 

Elio looks down, following the man's stare, then blows out a short laugh of his own. "It's my favorite, even if it's a couple of sizes too big." 

"I wonder why." 

Elio laughs again, mock-glaring at the stranger. "Funny, you," he remarks, climbing on the fence. "What are you doing here?" 

"Thinking," he answers. "And you?" 

"I live here." 

"Must you come out after midnight?" 

"Well, only on certain nights. I come out here to think." 

The man smiles, but Elio can't find any joy in it. "And of what, if you don't mind me asking?" 

"Only if you don't mind me asking, either." 

The man shrugs, agreeing to his terms. 

"You're in for disappointment. I woke up and couldn't go back to sleep."

"What about on other nights?" 

"It's my turn to ask." 

The man laughs, a little more genuine this time, but still awfully curt to convey glee. "I'm thinking of someone." 

Elio turns his head to the stranger, unassuming and comfortable in their villa. Maybe he's a friend that his father invited to stay the night. "I'd like to think that I do the same when I go out here, but honestly all I get are emotions that I don't recognize."

"Maybe it's the landscape." 

"Maybe. Do you think so?" 

"Not at all." The man answers, inspecting his own hand. "I come here specifically to think of someone. I seek it out." 

"Does she know?" 

"He," 

Elio supposes it's a test. He would've snorted at the intention if the act isn't offensive. "Does he know?" He amends, not missing a beat. 

"Deep down, yes." 

"I understand." 

"I expect you to." 

"Oh? Do I look like him?" 

"Nobody looks like him." 

"Then I apologize. This will just have to do." 

The man turns his head towards him, one brow raised in askance. Elio meets his stare, not backing down. They share a laugh about it. 

"Between strangers, this is the safest your secret is going to be," Elio begins, pulling one leg over to the fence and letting it dangle on the other side, facing the stranger completely. "Let it out." 

The man smiles, wistful and nostalgic. He moves on his seat and copies Elio until they're front to front. "Certain things are learned with time, and this is one of those. I'd thought that it was fleeting; a summer fantasy that took me high without ever coming down. I was unwilling to let it end on anyone else's term but mine, and so I dropped us." 

"Why must you hurt the two of you so?" 

"We had known." 

"It could've gone better."

"It was the only way." 

Elio scoffs, fully meaning to be scornful. "Even you don't believe that." 

"It's a fantasy." The man tells him. 

"You called your relationship a fantasy, too. Here you are." 

"Here I am." 

"Can't you go back to him? Make things right?" 

"There's no making things right anymore."

"You speak with so much finality. Why won't you try?" 

There's honesty on the man's face that stops and stutters Elio's own heart, as though it's claiming the scenario for himself when they're not even a tad familiar with each other. 

"He looked at me and didn't see me. It's like I wasn't there at all." 

"Oh." 

"Yes," 

"I'm sorry." 

"I know. I am sorry." 

Mornings in the villa are easily one of Elio's most favorite to wake up to. It's already up and ready for the day, which it unfailingly performs since his parents are quite popular in their town. There will be guests throughout the day, an inevitable commotion, good or bad, on more eventful days even trouble. It's rare that he wakes up earlier than the breakfast is served, but not impossible. Once out of bed, Elio descends on the staircase with a cheerful hop on his steps, walking straight on the piano and letting the notes of his fondest piece from Bach fill in their morning. 

Elio had known weeks prior of the arrival of a certain American colleague of his father, but exactly what are the chances that he'll meet him beforehand out in the garden at midnight? The man is dressed in a casual pressed shirt tucked under his shorts, his hair brushed neatly to the back of his head, all golden skin everywhere. He doesn't stop playing, waiting for the man to turn and meet his eyes and his fingers continue to fly over the keys without him looking. 

"So it's you," he quips smartly, smirking at their guest. "I wouldn't know that we won't be strangers for too long, but you did, so I think I'm off the hook." 

The man grins back to him, taken aback by his gall but deciding he's more delighted by it. "There's nothing to forgive then." 

"I'm not asking." Elio replies smoothly, finishing the last notes of the music and facing their guest. "Elio," he says, walking up to the man and offering his hand. 

"Oliver," he answers, accepting the handshake. "You are fond of that shirt." 

"Well, excuse my state. I just woke up." 

"It's a wonder you're up this early, to be honest." 

"And exactly where are you basing that off of?" 

"Just a hunch." 

Elio rolls his eyes, stepping out to the outdoor dining area where their breakfast is being served. He greets his parents with a kiss to their cheeks, then takes a seat. 

"Someone woke up on the right side of the bed." His father remarks as he watches him over the table. 

Elio doesn't entertain the comment, but he does exchange a look with Oliver, and they snicker under their breath. 

There's an existing fondness between the two of them established from the midnight in the garden. Elio, when he grows bored of reading his books and transcribing his music, would go out of his way to look for Oliver and engage him in conversations. It's not always about his profound feelings. They freely stray on any topics available to them, sometimes about Oliver's work, others on volumes they both know and love. 

Oliver, on the other hand, is keen on feigning his nonchalance, even though Elio can easily see through his bravado. Perhaps it's from the knowledge that he spilled his guts everywhere to the son of his host unknowingly, but he's definitely unusually skittish around Elio. He'd never thought he'd see it happen. After all, he's gotten used to being the neutralizer in their guests' lives in the villa; keeping them at least above someone while working under his father's tutelage. 

It's entirely different with Oliver. Sometimes, Elio consciously wants to shrink into himself. There's a look in his eyes that tells him that Oliver sees him as something much bigger than he actually is. Elio can't ever pinpoint a reason if he tried, but it eats him up every time it pops in his mind. 

"You're too stiff." Elio notes, sitting on an outdoor bench while Oliver is on the pool ledge, reading his manuscripts. 

He looks over at him, eyes hidden behind his sunglasses. 

"You need to relax more." 

"I'm the doctor between the two of us." 

Elio snorts. "Let's go swim." 

"Here?" 

"Down the river. Have you been?" 

There's a flash of softness in Oliver's face that's replaced with intrigue in a matter of seconds. "Must we?" 

"Why not? Don't tell me you have an allergy." 

Oliver guffaws, but he puts his papers away, clipping them together and taking them to the table by a window. He leaves it there, putting a weight on it to keep it in place, then joins Elio as he's walking towards the shed where the bikes are kept.

Elio leads him to the river nearby, Oliver pedalling easily at his side and enjoying the sight along the road. He can't place what it is about him that gives Elio the impression that he belongs in this landscape, but every movement he sees from him only convinces his consciousness more and more of this fact. 

They strip immediately after getting off their bikes, Elio racing him to the water then swimming right in the middle. Oliver easily catches up to him with his physique, diving underwater and tugging his ankles. He retaliates by grabbing Oliver by his shoulders, pushing him further down until he struggles and brings them both back above the surface, panting and coughing. They pause only to catch their breaths, then resume by splashing each other with water and chasing after the other at random intervals. Elio knows they're rapidly sliding into a more treacherous territory that they're entirely unprepared for, but he doesn't mind at all. 

"I love this, Oliver," he tells him as they sit on the grass, drying off and leaning on the arms to their back. 

Oliver stills, then takes a deep breath as he looks up to the sky. "Us, you mean?" 

There's an uncharacteristic uncertainty in his voice that Elio thinks is silly when he's all but bared it openly. "Yes, if I must spell it out." 

Huffing, Oliver turns his head to him, staring, taking him in. For a moment, Elio expects it to escalate further from there, but Oliver moves his head away, looking over to the water and smiling the same, melancholic smile that he wore on their first meeting in the garden. 

"You're thinking about him."

"It's hard not to." 

"Don't you ever want to forget like he did?" 

"No. I'd remember for the both of us." 

Elio is used to their guests getting a side trip during their stay in their villa, but it usually happens at the tail end rather than the beginning. Needless to say, he's surprised to find Oliver packing his bags the next day, then hearing from the other side of the wall that he has somewhere to be. It's shaping to be a busy day for him and his father that even Elio's help is asked for when he decides to enter the study. It's tedious task of sorting and cleaning up, which otherwise would've taken hours off their day. 

He's unaware of the nature of Oliver's trip, or even the details beyond the fact that he has somewhere to be. The guests stay for six weeks, which means that Oliver still has an ample amount of time to be in their villa, working on his publication, helping his father, laze around the town, bathe under the sun, swim in the pool. Logically, Elio is aware that his concern is coming out of nowhere, but the sight of the packed bags has seemed so final, like a chapter of a book written off and done forever. By the standard, Oliver will be here for five more weeks, yet he can't shake off the panic that started in the pit of his gut. 

"Are you leaving?" Elio asks suddenly when he sees Oliver walking to the pool, papers and a drink in hand. 

Oliver takes his glasses off and looks at him, perplexed. "I'm going to the pool." 

That's not what he means. Elio has a feeling that Oliver won't talk to him about it even if he pries. 

"Are you revising?" He asks instead, jutting his chin to the papers. 

"Checking and rechecking. I don't want to do anything less than perfect." 

Elio huffs, chuckling to himself. "That sounds like you." 

"And since when have you known me?" 

"I know you, in my heart of hearts."

Oliver turns ashen, his eyes wide and astounded as the rest of him remains paralyzed on his spot meters across Elio where he's sitting on the outdoor longue chair. It takes nearly a full minute, maybe shorter and he's only exaggerating, maybe longer and he's only enthralled, for Oliver to shake himself back, blinking rapidly and avoiding his eyes. 

"Are you sure of that?" He asks, finishing his drink. 

"Fairly," he confirms, his heart pounding loudly in his chest that he fears Oliver will hear it once he stands close enough, watching each landing of his steps on the ground until he's in front of him and putting the glass down on the table on the side of his chair. 

"I like the way you say things." 

"Because it makes you feel better?" 

"Because it breaks my heart." 

Why Elio understood what Oliver inherently meant at the core of that statement, he doesn't know. The fact of the matter remains, and he offers him a kind smile, which he returns with the same, lonely one that brings down the entirety of his face. 

"Come," Elio hops to his feet, grabbing his shirt and putting it on. 

Oliver doesn't ask anything. He follows Elio wordlessly as he takes their bikes and mounts them. He doesn't question their route when they'd seemingly been pedalling for the better part of the hour. He doesn't wonder about their destination when Elio brings them to the spring to cool down, then to the berm above it where he tells Oliver to go about his work, as the scenery is peaceful enough to induce his productivity. 

They don't speak, and it's not out of Elio's fear of breaking Oliver's heart more than it already has been. When they return to the villa and part ways without seeing each other again even past dinner, Elio finally admits that it's his fear of his own heart breaking  like Oliver's. 

It unsettles him enough that he finds himself unable to sleep, left to toss and turn on his bed for hours on end until he finally throws the sheets off him and walks to his desk. At first, he intends to trascribe more music, something that unfailingly bores him to sleep, yet to his surprise he finds clippings upon clippings of musical scores of the same kind - Bach's - with varying degree of completion, some stopping around the beginning, some past the mid, two finished, a couple nearly so. 

Elio startles, dropping the pages on his desk. It's all undoubtedly his work, but he doesn't recall doing any of them. It's impossible to miss, given how tedious transcribing is. It's definitely not something he'll forget then redo then over again. His head throbs, overwhelmed by the discovery. Elio bolts out of his room to save himself, running to his father's study to search it, then halts suddenly when he finds cigarette smoke inside, then his father and Oliver, smoking together, talking under their breaths. 

"And now?" Samuel asks, flicking his cigarette on the ashtray. 

Oliver throws his head back, spacing out as he stares on the ceiling, the smoke blowing out of his mouth in clouds. "I can't. It's too much."

"I do agree that you've exhausted yourself enough." 

"He knows me fully and not all at the same time." 

"You two do have the tendency to be more like the other more than yourselves." 

Olivers surpresses his sob with a huff of laughter, though his eyes don't lie. Elio steps back, knowing he's an unwelcomed intruder to their exchange. There's a crippling suspicion in him that Oliver isn't talking the man who has his heart anymore. The message speaks to him, in ways that he recognizes only with regards to Oliver. 

They don't speak, and yet Elio knows his heart has broken like Oliver's had. It's raw and consuming, but not unprecedented. It plucks a string in him that's strung too tight and predominantly untouched that his entirety aches when the thrum spreads from his chest and throughout his body. It burns him from inside out, but Elio allows it, sitting down on his piano, and begins to play. 

All seems to boil down to one thing, and Elio doesn't wonder anymore when his fingers automatically follow the keys to materialize the music of Bach in the hall and across the floor of the villa. There's a tremble on his wrist that's not even present on recitals and solos that he's done over the years, but then he supposes none of those really compare to the gravity of what he's facing tonight. 

There's a constant tap at the back of his head as he plays, but Elio pays no mind to it. He's come to the point where he would only trust what's to come, likely due to his growing realization that he's not quite as settled as he believes himself to be. The villa is unchanged, the landscape, the morning to evenings and then back, the people, their town, yet nothing is the same. There's dullness on the palette with which he views the environment, there's flatness behind in his own music as he carries it out. Elio can't put his incredulity at rest, but he might not need to. He wishes, hopes, that it comes to him, if it's meant to be. 

The piece ends and his fingers leave the keys. Elio sets his hands on his lap, allowing himself to feel as much as he needs to, before he raises his head and sees only the shadow of Oliver, walking away from the doorway and disappearing to the other end. Somehow, it's a relief. He wouldn't have known what to say to him. 

Elio looks to the keys, running his fingers on top and across the black and white. Up. Around. He smiles, finding the colors to be a little brighter, the sounds a little clearer, then touches the Star of David dangling on his neck. There's only one thing left missing, but he knows exactly where to find it. It may be a trance, or the other way around, but it doesn't matter to him. 

He leaves the hall and goes up to his room, actively searching for the light blue billowy shirt that has been his comfort and peace. It weighs heavier now, but Elio doesn't mind. He turns to the twin beds, and with all his might, pushes them together. He slips under his sheets and waits for sleep to come. 

The blue looks more vibrant that night, he notes as his eyes flutter open from slumber. Moonlight spills into the room through the open windows, the cool breeze entering with it. He sighs, enjoying the intimacy that he associates with this scenery, then turns his head to the side where he knows someone is waiting for him. 

"Hello," Elio greets passively.

Oliver recovers from his surprise, smiling sadly. "Please, I only need you to listen." He holds a hand up, not touching, but assuring him that there's no need for him to leave his bed. 

Elio complies, and lets him take this moment to spill the rest of his heart. 

"I'm leaving, and I want to tell you that I didn't make this decision lightly. Honestly, I didn't have an exact plan when the opportunity to return rose and I took it. I said to myself that I would know when I get here, but what's important is I see you again. And now that I have, I know I can't breach the wall you've put up to save yourself, so I'm respecting your wishes. It's the least that I can do. After all, I was the one who decidedly dropped us on a freefall, and no amount of fear that I had then spared us from paying the price of our summer. " 

Oliver takes a deep breath, but it's a losing battle as his exhale trembles, yet he persists. 

"I don't know if you'll wake up tomorrow and recall the American who laid his heart out to you, or it'll fade along with the night when the dawn breaks. Either way, I want you to know, even if it reaches your consciousness only in this sliver of time, that I wholly belong to you, and even if you've turned away, I will never recover." 

Finally, his tears spill, the sobs wracking his body as he takes Elio's hand between his, then kisses it soundly. 

"I remember everything, and if only I could have you again like I did in our summer, I swear it on God that I shall never ask for anything else for the rest of my life. Then again, I guess you called it already, seven years ago: Zwischen immer und nie. I love you, know this. Even only this. I love you."

Despite Oliver's protests, Elio pushes off the bed to sit, his other hand reaching to his face, barely a ghost of a touch, then speaks with enough conviction to free them both. 

"Elio."