⁂
The day Oliver called off the wedding was the most freeing day of his life. He didn't tell Elio. His reasoning for this was simple, Elio was seventeen years old, they had spent one summer together and it wasn't at all fair for Oliver to place this kind of burden on him.
At least that's what he told himself.
But another part of him was terrified that he would tell him and learn the truth of what he'd feared these past few months, that their time spent together didn't mean the same thing to Elio that it meant to Oliver. That Elio was done with him, that their fling had been enough. That he'd moved on.
And Oliver sure as hell couldn't fault him if he had. After all he was the one who left, the one who got engaged, who threw all their weighted words and fevered touches away. If he told Elio that the wedding was off, that Elio was the reason for it, then he would certainly feel some sort of responsibility, would feel guilty if he no longer had feelings for Oliver.
Sometimes Oliver thought that was his greatest fear. That their love had been wildfire. Burning flames of desire licking up their flesh, producing something neither could deny for long. An agonized burn that never lasted, that bound and tore apart the people it touched. The kind of love that could never be fed enough, that would soon be reduced to smoldering ashes and curling tendrils of smoke.
The kind of love that couldn't be sustained.
So Oliver spoke nothing of his new uncertain future, not on the weekends when Samuel called, not when Elio withdrew entirely, when he didn't even bother to shout a hello over his father's shoulder, not when everything inside him screamed that this was his fault, that he had to confess. It was selfish to be sure, but he couldn't stop himself from trying to protect them both from a truth they would be happy with.
He stayed in New York, faraway from disgustedly disappointed parents and spurned fiancees'. Faraway from quiet vineyards and a sense of peace he knew he'd never feel again. Far, so damn far, from soulful dark hazel eyes and twisting, tangled curls.
But for the most part he's fine. He can't look at a peach without something inside him tearing, because peaches aren't something that anyone outside of their special bubble should be able to touch. Yet it seems the rest of the world doesn't know this yet. And he hasn't listened to music in months because every time he does Elio's smirk and tantalizingly slender fingers appear.
It's almost taunting but in a way that Oliver will never get enough of. Because as much as the memories hurt when they well up, they provide a poison sweet relief. Like bleeding the bad blood from an infected wound. It takes just enough pressure off, makes it bearable.
Bearable enough to continue on with his classes, to read through each students' rudimentary essays, the ones that the professor couldn't be bothered with, and offer a strained smile at the clusters of young women who were always conveniently placed outside his office.
But he's completely fine. He's free and after all isn't that what he's been striving for all these years?
Does it even matter now?
Without Elio?
Of course it does.
Does it?
Yes, of course.
No.
He used to think that the nights would be the hardest part but he was wrong about that too. It's the slow moving hours between lunch and dinner that drove him further into the curled talons of insanity. Because in those moments it broke him, the thought of never seeing Elio again, at least not in the way that he once had. Of slamming the door on a piece of himself, the only piece that was real.
Just tell me it's real. Please God, it needs to be real.
But he doesn't expect an answer, doesn't expect much of anything anymore.
⁂
It's on a particularly awful day, the kind that makes him question how much longer he can go on like this, that his entire world shifts yet again. Oliver cuts across the street, eyes locked on the lanky form that might be nothing but might be everything. Oliver doesn't make the conscious decision to reach out and wrap his fingers around the other man's wrist but it happens anyway.
Elio whips around to face him, startled and bewildered. Then a shocked, breathless noise parts his lips and Oliver laughs. Laughs because how in the hell was it possible? He can't pull him into his arms because they're in the middle of New fucking York but he's never wanted to more.
"Elio." He murmurs instead, forcing as much reverence as he can into the word. Elio's face slackens slightly and then he's grinning, the expression at once foreign and familiar. Because this is Elio, the boy he'd fallen so deeply in love with. But it's not. He's taller, thinner, the planes of his face sharper, more angular, the bags under his eyes apparent. But it's his eyes that have changed the most, hardened into something cautious and angry. This Elio has seen something of the world and the world was not kind.
A protective desire balloons inside Oliver, the feeling that if he could just wrap himself tightly enough around Elio he could somehow ensure that nothing would hurt him ever again. Instead he clasps his hand in a warm shake and asks, "What are you doing here?"
Elio's face tenses and too late does Oliver realize how accusatory his words might sound.
"School."
It's the first word Elio's spoken to him in months and he wishes he could bottle up the sound. It's incredible really, how that one word unravels him. The sharp, clever way it drips past his teeth. Oliver aches to replay it over and over again.
"School? Where? Carnegie?" He sounds like an overexcited labrador but he can't help himself. Elio on the other hand, once recovered from his initial shock, regards Oliver with cool blasé.
"Yes, Carnegie. I'm sorry I didn't tell you, probably should've warned you," A nervous, almost apologetic chuckle, "Hindsight, as they say."
Oliver's brow furrows in confusion as he attempts to figure out why Elio would ever think he needed to be warned. Informed would've been nice, if only because these streets were anything but safe after dark and he would've gladly lent himself out as companion or guide of sorts.
"No, no. That's not what I meant, just- I'm glad to see you."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
And it's not acceptance, nor forgiveness. Certainly not a promise, but it's something and Oliver won't be so stupid as to let it slip away again.