Call me by your name
Verona, Italy
1983
I hate when Dad brings strangers to live home. He is an archaeologist and the University of Verona requires him to get interns every summer. I understand, but it doesn't seem like a reason enough to throw me out of my room and give it to them, while I'm dying of heat in the attic and swarms of mosquitoes eat me alive every night for a month!
If it would be to help homeless people, I would accept. I would even agree to be part of his boring archaeological digs with all his team of jerks, as long as those interns slept in the living room. But no! Those who suffer every summer are Marzia and I. Neither my parents nor Marzia's are going to share their rooms with strangers.
Marzia is a great friend of mine. The truth is that I feel grateful to have someone as good and understanding as her in my life. I am an only child and, although it is true that I love loneliness, I search it and I enjoy it, sometimes it suffocates me. And being around old people all the time, teachers, cults, academics… makes me feel lonelier than usual.
Marzia's parents, Carlota and Teo, are also teachers, like mine. Our parents get along really well, which is why they both agreed to carry out this silly "internship contest". Last year it was Marzia's turn to give up her room to a host. She had to throw a mattress on the dining room floor and sleep there. The poor girl got up all contractured, but instead of being angry she was happy because the guy was Slovak and he was so hot!
"Marzia…" I told her when I found out. "The guy sleeps in your bed, drools on your pillow, wears your robe, shits in your bathroom, and doesn't even say hello to you."
"You say that because you didn't see his beautiful eyes!" She told me, smiling like a fool. "Yesterday he winked at me. I think he likes me."
"Oh my God!" I growled and rolled my eyes, but she was right. He did like her, because I found them groping in a corner, one early morning when we went out dancing with my group of friends. When they saw me they ignored me, while I internally wished to have disappearance powers.
Right now I'm in front of the lake. It seemed like yesterday that its calm waters made me feel peace and happiness. However, today I´m so annoyed that not even diving my feet in there makes me feel better. Last night I found out that my parents are going to take away my piano.
"Why?" I asked them over dinner, offended.
Mafalda, our housekeeper, went to the kitchen to lock herself in. She always does the same when she feels that a family discussion is coming.
"Because I'm going to renovate the living room to turn it into an archaeological study room," Dad explained to me. I hate when he uses that "teacher tone" on me.
"But it's my piano!" I insisted. "And the presentation is in two weeks! I have to practice, Dad."
"Elio, dear," Mom told me. "You can practice with the piano of the town library."
"Of course I won´t!" I growled. "That one is old and out of tune. It doesn't sound like mine." Dad didn't give me much importance, he ate as if nothing was happening. I grabbed my fork and put it in my mouth, but I was so angry that I lost my appetite. "How long will the repair take?" I asked disinterestedly, leaning against the back of the chair. He shrugged.
"A week, perhaps," he replied. "I hope to have it ready before the American boy arrives."
I raised an eyebrow. His extreme concern and detail for an insignificant host was beginning to irritate me.
"I'm not going to help you," I muttered and put a piece of steak into my mouth. I forced myself to swallow it.
"No, you won't." I heard him saying with gladness. "I already told Pedro. Tomorrow he´s coming to give me a hand. But if I don't get it ready by next week, I'm sure the American will be happy to do it. He is a very nice boy." I frowned. An American...? It would be the first time Dad brings an American to the house. I looked at him with wide eyes.
"But you don't like Americans," I reminded him. And neither I. Their petulance offends me, their way of expressing themselves as if they believed they were the kings of the world, their lack of manners...
He didn't listen to me or pretended not to do it. He kept talking to my mother about the "arrangements" for the guy's welcome. Suddenly he looked at me smiling. He didn't care about my discontent.
"There's always a first time for everything," he told me after a while. I raised an eyebrow and decided to remain silent for the rest of dinner. Although it wasn't too long that I stayed there. After five minutes I got up, determined to go to my room, when I heard him speaking to me. "By the way, Elio, I forgot to tell you: you´ll have to give him your room."
Hell no.
"What…?" I turned around and asked him.
"That you´ll have to give him your room," he repeated calmly.
"I heard it! I'm not deaf, I just…" I stuttered, because I couldn´t understend it. "Why mine?"
"For three simple reasons," he followed. "Your room is the largest, it has view of the vineyard, and I want the American feel comfortable during his time here. And because Carlota and Teo gave their house last year. It's our turn."
I was speechless. I turned and walked up the stairs in silence and sulking.
"When?" I asked from upstairs.
"For next week," he answered. His lack of empathy concerned me.
"Where I am going to sleep?!" I complained. "I'm not going back to the attic!"
"Then in the barn room," he said, drank from his glass of wine and continued talking to my mother. I breathed out, hoping that would calm me down a bit. I walked decisively to my bedroom and lock me in for the rest of the night.
I woke up this morning in the same bad mood. The attic is the dirtiest place in the house and it bothers me to think that I will have to sleep there for a month, because I won´t go to the barn room!
I picked up a couple of things, put them in my backpack and came to the lake without even going down to breakfast. Don't get me wrong. I love my parents and I know that everything I have I owe to them. I always loved spending summers here, in northern Italy, with them.
It is said that there is a place in the world for everyone and I am sure that mine is Verona, with its fields of tall grasses and its blue lakes. Verona, an ancient and sophisticated city… but neglected by the years too.
My parents offered me the facilities of a life of luxury served on a tray at a very young age. I love summers in Italy because I spend the hot days sitting in front of the piano, while I try till the end to get Chopin's Ninth Nocturne. I spend hours in the living room reading the books of the family library, which are about a thousand years old, some belonged to my great-grandparents, others are newer. I have read them all at least twice each.
I play the piano until dawn. Sometimes I get obsessed when a note doesn't come out, when I can't find it, when I feel lost in front of the immensity of music. And I try again and again until my fingers wear out. My teacher, who conducts the orchestra every summer, says that I am a "spiral learner" because my obsession with achieving perfection causes me to become entangled in myself to the point of agony. But then, when I finally arrive at a result that satisfies me, I get out of that vicious circle and, according to her, I turn out to be the best composer on her team.
It scares me that I don't have enough practice days for the show. And it makes me even more sad to know that my parents are not interested on it.
It's been a week already. According to Pedro, Dad's favourite labourer for being the most meticulous in doing his job, the new study room was left in optimal conditions.
Marzia is lying on my bed. She looks out the window all the time and keeps showing that white-toothed smile that makes me angry.
"I don't know why you're so excited about," I tell her. I'm still in a bad mood. "He's just a host."
"One from America!" she says emphatically, as if there's something fantastic about it that I still don't realize. "Do you think it comes from New York?" She stands up and goes to look out the window for the nineteenth time.
"What do I know…?" I shrugged. I have no choice but to stand by her side. My parents are in the park, holding hands, watching the path that leads to the entrance of the house.
"Do you think he's handsome?" She asks me, but I can't answer. A taxi approaching in the distance catches my attention. My heart stops at the same moment as the car. The American gets out of the taxi wearing a plain blue shirt. He is blond, tall, tanned, and wears black glasses. Marzia starts jumping around with excitement while my parents help the guy carry the bags into the house. The nightmare of having to sleep for a month in that disgusting attic has just begun.
"I'd better go home now," Marzia tells me. "See you later, okay?" I nod dejectedly. She hugs me and gives me a kiss on the cheek. She runs down the stairs and I hear her waving at them. I am forced, by fidelity to my manners, to do the same.
I go downstairs and meet the three at the entrance of the dining room.
"Elio, this is Oliver," Dad tells me cheerfully. I stare at Oliver. He gives me a half smile that I try to return and it doesn't come out. "Oliver, this is Elio, my only son."
"A pleasure, Elio," he says. He comes towards me and I feel that he is two heads taller than me. He doesn't even take off his glasses to give me a kiss on the cheek and he hits me on the forehead with the frame of the glasses. He chews gum with his mouth so open that I can even see it's a mint gum. Then he pats me on the shoulder. I look angrily at my father, who gives me a warning look back: "be nice," he seems to say.
"The pleasure is mine," I reply in a weak whisper.
"Your father mentioned you a lot during classes at university. You're a pianist..." he tells me smiling. I nod like a battery doll, but I´m not listening a word. "I'm excited. The truth is that Italy is more beautiful than you told me, professor," he says, and takes a little distance.
"Elio, why don't you get Oliver to the room, so he can leave the package?" Mom asks me, and although the fact that her voice is sweet, I can't help but perceive it as a provocation.
I take a while to suppress the accumulation of emotions that invades me.
"Sure," I finally answer, my teeth are clenched and my jaw is set. I exhale a long breath, grab one of the suitcases, and start up the stairs with Oliver following me. I close the bedroom door after entering, so I don't have to hear the muttering of my parents downstairs.
"What a nice room!" he says after we're left alone, and he finally takes off his glasses. He throws himself on my bed, grabbs the pillow and lays his head under it. Then, he covers his body with my favorite blanket. He is not even taking off his shoes, and he is dirtying the whole bed! I stare at him for a while until I realize that he shows no intention of getting up.
"Aren't you going to unpack?" I ask him.
"Later," he tells me in a sleepy voice. "The truth is that I am quite tired. I'm going to take a nap." He yawns and stops paying me attention. I feel that my presence there is unnecessary. I roll my eyes. "Could you tell your mother to wake me up for lunch?" he asks me with the most absolute disrespect. I am stunned.
"Sure," I whisper, trying to suppress the feeling of offense that invades me.
I leave the room. And I'm even kind enough to close the door as slowly as possible so as not to make a noise!
I walk up stairs again and find the attic, the place where I will have to sleep from now on. I spent the whole week trying to repair it, although I didn't even get a big change. Mafalda never cleans this place, and I understand her! I wouldn't do it either if I ran the risk of getting trapped in one of the cobwebs in the corners.
I go to the balcony of the large window and look below, where my room is. I imagine him sleeping, drooling on my pillow and sticking his gum to the pillowcase. I feel deep anger. I decide to go to the lake and I take the novel that I left halfway with me to keep my concentration occupied in something better than the presence of that American.
"In old age it seems natural to exaggerate with mistrust, just as it is typical for young people to lack judgment."
I read the sentence a second time, and a third. Up to a fourth. I am always captivated by Shakespeare's poetic way of expressing himself. The only thing I could complain about now is not listening to Chopin while reading Hamlet, they are the perfect companions for an afternoon of reading. But it doesn´t matter. I would rather be lying on the grass a thousand times, with my feet submerged in the calm waters of this lake, than being at home...
Shit!
"Elio!" My mother greets me from the car window. My father is driving; they both smile enthusiastically. They park the car a few meters from the lake and he gets out… My stomach hurts when I see him. I feel my muscles tense, what had been a peaceful afternoon of reading suddenly turns into a nightmare.
"I didn't know you had come here," Dad says as he takes some fishing rods out of the trunk of the car. "If you had told me, we would have all come here together." He smiles at me. I avert my gaze. I'm not sure what face I have, but my father´s expression suddenly turns serious. "You skipped lunch." I show him the half-bitten apple I have in my hand so he stops bothering me. "An apple is not enough!" He tells me, and leaves me alone with my reading. He approaches Oliver with a can of bait. Oliver glances at the worms wriggling in the collected earth, then looks up at the landscape.
"So this is the famous lake with the best fishes in the area," he appreciates. It is the first time that I pay attention to the gray color of his eyes and his arrogant look. Out of nowhere he takes off his shoes and shirt and, in shorts, he throws himself into the water like a cannonball. He splatters my book.
I hear my parents laughing. Oliver is in the water for longer, splashing around, and then he comes out. He walks over to my father, wrings out his hair, and now yes, he chooses a worm and puts it on a hook.
"After what you did…" I say aloud, "I highly doubt you're going to catch anything. You've already scared all the fishes away." I keep my eyes on the book and pretend to be concentrated, but I lost my focus on Shakespeare a while ago.
I glance sideways at Oliver. He turns to me and watches me carefully, just like my father.
"I guess I'm an idiot," he says and smiles.
"You guess right," I reply.
"Elio!" Mom yells shocked. She looks at me with wide eyes and a surprised expression.
I keep quiet as my father looks at me disapprovingly. I stand up and put the book in my bag. I walk to my bike and get away. I'm leaving without saying goodbye.
When I get home I take a cold bath to lower my body temperature. The heat makes me sleepless, but tonight I'm too tired to stay awake. My stomach growls with hunger.
I dry my hair with a small towel and comb it with my fingers. I look at my reflection in the dirty mirror. It gives me back a deplorable reflection of my naked and wet body, with rows of boxes in the corners of the room, filled with broken, old and abandoned objects years ago. I hurry to change my clothes and go to the balcony to appreciate the chirping of crickets. The temperature dropped drastically and that relieves me. I look at the moon and stars, and I close my eyes to feel more intensely the fresh breeze that caresses my face. But after a few seconds all that harmony is interrupted by the honking of a car. I look down and see them approaching the farm.
They all get out of the car at the same time. My father walks next to Oliver. He puts his arm around his shoulders as they talk and smile. They are still in the same good spirits as in the afternoon, or they are even happier! That makes me think the fishing was unbelievably successful.
I don't know why, but seeing them together makes me feel weird. Dad still doesn´t allow me to get into the living room, and I'm here suffering for not being able to play Für Elise. I see him smiling next to Oliver and I can't stop thinking that he fills the role of the ideal son: they both share a passion for archeology and enjoy talking about unearthed corpses. In addition, Oliver has an exacerbated masculinity that is noticeable even in his voice, he imposes a presence, unlike me. He comes from America, the new continent, cradle of rock and roll and pornographic movies. What bombast!
I snap out of my thoughts when I hear a knock on the door.
"Go ahead," I say, and Mafalda leans out.
"Come downstairs, darling," she says sweetly. "I'm preparing dinner and we have to set the table. Your father sent me to call you." She keeps a tea towel in her apron. I look at her from the corner of my eye disinterestedly as I search my backpack for the headphones.
"What are we having for dinner?" I ask, like it's not obvious. I sit on the bed and put the headphones around my neck.
"Fish," she tells me smiling, "you can't imagine how much they've caught! I didn't think anyone could beat your father's record, but that American boy sure is good!
I raise an eyebrow while pretending not to understand.
"Fishing seems like a wild act to me," I whisper. I glance at Mafalda and notice that she gives me a strange face.
"But you always liked to eat grilled fish with spices."
I look at the dirt that surrounds me in the attic, then I turn my gaze to the night and back to Mafalda.
"I'm not having dinner," I reply, not even trying to come up with an excuse.
She looks at me like she doesn't understand.
"Are you okay, dear?" She wonders me with a worried tone.
I shrug. I don't answer her. I grab Hamlet again and pretend to be alone. It's all for her to take the hint. She carefully closes the door. I put the headphones in my ears and play the walkman. I turn up the volume to the top. I lie down on my bed and close my eyes.
The radio is playing American pop songs, so I immediately switch to an Italian station. The worst thing is that I love American music, but since that American came I can't stand being in contact with anything that symbolizes him.
I think five minutes have passed since Mafalda left, and now I see my Dad coming into my room. And judging by his furrowed brow, I assume there's something wrong. He talks to me, but I can't hear him because of the volume of the music. I turn off the Walkman and look into his eyes as he watches me in silence waiting for an answer.
"What?" I ask him.
"Come down to dinner. It's an order," he says with a threatening tone. I don't need to give him reasons, he knows exactly why I'm refusing, I can see it in the reproach of his eyes. My father isn´t used to get angry, he is rarely in a bad mood. But he changes when I contradict him.
"I don't feel like it," I say, putting my arms behind my head.
"I'm not asking you." I can tell by the look on his face that this is a serious warning. I laugh, and that seems to angry him even more. "Elio…" he mumbled.
"I'm going to eat here," I tell him.
"You're going to go downstairs and have dinner with everyone. It's my house and I give the orders," he continues. "When you get older and pay for the place where you´ll live, you will be able to take your decisions. As long as you're under my roof, you're going to do what I tell you." He continues looking at me menacingly. "Get down stairs right now," he repeats.
"I don't want to be in the same place as him." I look away so I don´t meet his eyes. "I can't stand him," I confess.
"Well, I'm sorry, but you're going to have to," he tells me with his hands on his waist. "He hasn't done anything to make you behave like this."
I roll my eyes and sigh.
"Yeah, of course!" I growl. "And have taking away my room what is?"
"I took that decision, Elio," he tells me emphatically, and I notice that he's reaching the limit of his patience.
"I know, the same thing happened with the piano!" I remember to him. We exchange menaces glances in complete silence. "Why don't you let me go into the living room? Pedro already told me he finished repairing it. You don't care about me at all!"
"We're not going to start discussing that now. Go downstairs!" he tells me, and this time yelling at me.
I stare at him for a few seconds.
"You really don't care about me at all," I finally say, walking past him toward the door. I run down the stairs and go into the dinning room. I feel anger! And that makes me hit myself with a chair. I sit forcefully next to Mom. The American is sitting in front of me. He watches me silently. Mafalda is also sitting at the table, her eyes downcast, and Mom has a serious expression. I´m sure all three have heard the screams.
I sigh. I won´t try to sympathize, I just can´t and I'm sure I must have an undisguisable annoyed face! I cross my arms as Dad comes down the stairs, joining us by sitting at the end of the table. He looks at Oliver, who smiles him back. There you have them!
I spend dinner in silence while Dad and Oliver talk about the digging they plan to start in March. Mom doesn't stop talking to Oliver; and she keeps talking like mad so there is no a second of awkward silence. Perhaps because she is nervous or maybe she tries to pretend that the tension in the environment is not as serious as it seems.
"That's a really good idea," Dad says, grinning broadly. Our eyes meet. I notice that the anger no longer invades him. He looks at me smiling and reaches out a hand to stroke my hair.
"What about you, Oliver?" Mom asks. "Do you like classic music?"
The American seems to be uncomfortable with the question.
"The truth is that I don't know anything about classical music," he confesses. Mom looks at him sadly. I smile to myself, I expected it.
"You're missing out the best thing in life," Dad says, leaning back in his chair. "Chopin's Menuetto, Allegro... They are true jewels."
Oliver looks like he has no idea what those two sonatas are.
"He's American, he only knows about rock and pop," I whisper contemptuously. But what I said was audible enough to reach everyone's ears. Oliver stares at me, and I pretend to be very focused on my food.
"Well, yes... that's right, Elio," he tells me in his gravelly big man voice. "I only know about rock and pop."
I feel done with that confession. I think it's the first time today that I smile for real. My father looks at me disapprovingly.
"Rock has many combinations of sounds," says Mom. "It's not an easy genre when it comes to composing." She takes a piece of fish to her mouth. "Can you play an instrument, Oliver?"
"The truth is that I only know about archaeology, philosophers and thinkers," he answers. "I´m not good at arts, I'm not like Elio." He stares at me defiantly. I feel the irony in his words.
"You're a brilliant student," says Dad. "I doubt anything will be complicated for you. You will learn when you propose it."
We don't bring up the subject of music again so far at dinner. It's eleven o'clock and Mafalda picks up the dishes.
I wake up around six in the morning. The disadvantage about the attic is that it doesn't even have curtains, so waking up with sunlight hitting my face is inevitable. I turn face down and cover my head with the pillow to avoid it. Something stings my right leg. I touch it to see what it is.
"Oh shit!" I shout. I uncover to see… it´s a huge bruise! It must have appear after hitring myself with the chair yesterday. I was so angry that I didn't even feel it at that moment.
I throw my head back and sighed. A new day… I don't feel like getting up, but at any moment Mafalda will arrive knocking on the door and announcing that breakfast is ready. I´m not sure when, because the sun is just rising. I wonder if anyone is awake.
I decide to sleep a little more. I bring one hand behind my head and with the other I touch the lump that formed after the hit. I insult myself for being so clumsy. I close my eyes and start to breathe more calmly. I slowly rise my hand more and more gently. I start touching my crotch. Images of a naked woman comes to my mind. She smiles at me and approaches. And when I imagine her walking towards me she is no longer a woman… she is a man. He is tall, athletic and devilishly manly. He smiles, and his smile is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen in my life.
He approaches my ear and whispers; he asks me if I want a blowjob. I nod and he crouches down. He unzips my pants and pleases me slowly. I start touching myself. He looks at me with his eyes burning with lust and I grab his hair and pull him towards me with determination. Then the intensity increases, and I begin to touch myself with force and desperation.
He continues at a wild pace. I dominate him. I attract him to my erection.
A little more.
Further.
I hear an insistent knock on the door.
"Fuck!" I insult, and I think I did it in a loud voice. Inspiration has just gone down the drain. I angrily pull up my underwear and quickly get dressed. "What?" I yell out of breath.
"Breakfast is ready, Elio," she says, as I guessed.
"I'm coming," I say, taking a second to calm me down and breathe normally again.
I enter in the dinning room half an hour later. Mom is sitting at the table, but Oliver and Dad aren't there.
"They went to look for some maps in the city," she tells me after asking her. "They left quite early, so they must be coming."
I grabbed a piece of toast and spread it with jam. Mafalda brought me milk from the kitchen. I smiled at her and she kissed my forehead.
Fifteen minutes later I see Dad's car parked in the garden. Oliver is carrying a bunch of maps that doesn´t allow him to see where he is walking, and he is still wearing his sunglasses! So Dad helps him walk in a straight line so he doesn't fall.
I feel that strange uncomfortable pain again.
"Good morning," Oliver greets as he enters the house. Once again his deep voice of big man resounds in every corner. His tone exudes confidence, and I don't know why that bothers me.
My mouth is full, so I don't answer. I glance at him as he walks where Dad points. He's wearing an unbuttoned light blue shirt that shows all the blond hair on his chest. I can't help but look at my forearms. They are as bald as my face.
I don't know why I do this every time I see him. I can't stop comparing myself with him. Am I jealous...? No! I forbid myself to think that stupidity. I wouldn't envy a brute like him.
"Do you already had breakfast?" Mom asks them as they walk to the table. I can feel Oliver's gaze on me, under his glasses. I dodge him.
"Not yet," Dad says, enters to the living room and asks Oliver to leave the maps anywhere. Oliver puts them at the side of the piano. "We will accommodate them in their place later. Let's eat something," he says.
They sit at the table. Oliver chooses the chair in front of me again. He pushes up his glasses, looks at me and smiles.
"Are you nervous about the show you're going to give at the theater?" he asks me.
"You just filled the piano with those maps, do you really care?"
"Elio, please don't start," Mom warns me. The smile on Oliver's face is instantly wiped away.
"They're not on top, they're next to it," Oliver answers desoriented.
Dad stands up.
"Where are you going?" Mom asks.
"To get the maps out of the piano," Dad answers with a sour face. "I'll put them on the sofa or the desk."
The tension returns to dominate the environment. Oliver suddenly stands up.
"I´ll better do it," he says to Dad. "After all, I left them there." He smiles, but this time in a forced way.
Dad takes seat in his chair. I hold the cup and continue drinking my coffee.
This day flew by. After lunch I went to the lake. How magnificent is to appreciate all this nature alone! The sun, the sound of the water, the caresses of the wind, the verses of Hamlet... All this is an inspiration for me, to review the scores of Für Elise over and over again. I memorized the notes so when I got home I could play the piano right away. But when I arrived I found out that it was not going to be possible.
"I'm sorry, Elio," Dad told me. "The room is still not ready. Oliver and I are putting the maps on the wall and there's too much glue smell. Wait until tomorrow" He excused himself and closed the door in my face.
Shit.
I came to the attic and lay on the bed. It makes me nervous to think that maybe I'm not practicing as much as I should, and then my imagination betrays me and turns against me, as always. I start to imagine myself on stage. My teacher asks me for the solo and I can't play it because… I don't know it!
Sigh. After half an hour, Mafalda tells me to go downstairs for dinner. At table, Mom, Dad and Oliver talk as animatedly as ever. I can only think of return to the attic and continue writing the scores. I finish dinner and inmidiatly go there. I only have the headphones on for ten minutes and fall asleep.
When I wake up it's still night. I see the watch in my wrist; It's one in the morning.
I stand up thirsty and decide to go to the kitchen for a glass of water. I go downstairs a bit groggy, I'm still asleep. I look at myself and realize that I went to bed with my everyday clothes, I didn't even put on my pajamas. The lights are still on, I guess Mafalda hasn't finished her chores yet.
I enter in the kitchen and grab a glass from the cupboard, but a familiar sound brings me out of my abstraction… is it the piano?
I leave the glass on the counter table and walk briskly to the living room. The sound becomes more and more audible; the blood in my veins boils like lava.
Definitely… it's my piano.
I push the door harshly. Oliver looks at me surprised.
"What are you doing?" I ask him. Judging by his expression, my face must be the least friendly thing he saw that night. "Get away from my piano!" I growl.
I notice that he doesn´t know how to react. I took him by surprise.
"I'm sorry, Elio," he whispers. It's the first time his big man voice sounds reduced. "I came to work with the maps and distracted myself with the piano. It was barely a minute, I didn't even touch it."
"It´s not true. Since you arrived, you've been involved in my things."
"What…?!" he asks me stupefied. He stands up slowly. "You're asleep…" He says and smiles, but my lapidary expression makes his smile fade gradually. I hear the living room door being opened. Oliver looks over his shoulder.
"What's going on?" Dad asks. He carries a stack of papers in his hands. "Elio, I told you you couldn't come in here."
"Sure!" I roll my eyes. "I can't come to play the piano, but he can do it!" I explote and dedicate to my father a dagger look. "The presentation is in a week, Dad!" I think I'm screaming. I'm not sure, but… "Why can he enter? He had his hands on my piano! He's rude like all Americans! I don't want him near to my piano!" Yeah, I'm screaming.
"Elio, you are impossible!" Dad shouts, puts the stack of papers on the desk and turns to me. "Since Oliver arrived you've been acting like a child. What's the matter?" He stands right in front of me.
"What's the matter…? You gave him my room, that happens!" The echo of my voice resounds in every corner. "Since he's here you don't give a shit about practices and you forced me to sleep in that dirty attic." My father's face turns red.
"I'm reaching the limit of my patience with you, Elio," he threatens me.
"I don´t care," I assume with contempt. "I want my room back, right now!" I shout and see my father raise a hand to slap me, but Oliver steps between us and stops him.
"Wait, no," he begs holding his hand. "Don't hit him sir, please," he whispers, closing his eyelids. "This is all my fault," he says, dejected. They exchange glances.
The silence that surrounds us is uncomfortable, but I can't feel it because my heartbeat deafens me. I'm angry and nervous... I don't stay to listen to what they have to say, nor do I regret what I did. I leave the room at lightning speed and run up the stairs to the attic.
I wake up to Mafalda knocking at my door, letting me know that breakfast is ready. I get up, get dressed and decide that later I am going to take a bath, maybe it will alleviate the discomfort that invades me. But when I open the door I find a strange scene. There is a suitcase in the middle of the hallway.
"Elio…" I hear. I turn around, although I don't need to see him to know it's him. "Good morning," he greets me.
"Good morning," I tell him. It's too early for this. However, he seems not to come in that plan. He smiles at me.
"I spoke to your father last night, after you went to sleep," he keeps saying. "I think it's a better idea not to continue with this. I feel like I'm invading you, so I convinced him to give you your room back."
"Are you leaving?" I ask, and I can't help to show a bit of excitement in my voice. He lets out a boisterous laugh.
"Not from Verona, if that's your question. Your father and his assistant will give me a hand today to get the room next to the barn ready. I'm moving."
"That room is a shed. It has an extravagant amount of stuff," I muse out loud. "You will never finish today."
He doesn't seem to listen to me.
"I'm sure between the three of us we'll have it ready for tonight," he tells me, and smiles again. "I'm sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable all these days. I hope that from now on we can start to get along better." He leans a hand toward me. At first I feel suspicious, but his attitude of wanting to reverse things makes me feel sorry for him. I soften and end up shaking his hand.
"Okay."
During breakfast, Dad tells me that in addition to renovating the barn room for Oliver, he had taken time early in the morning to get the piano out of the living room and, with Pedro's help, they leaded it to the tea room.
"So you can practice quietly, and you don't have to worry for all that glue smell," he says smiling. "It's still not completely gone." I feel gratified. My soul returns to my body as if by magic and, with it, the feeling of impotence is leaving me. "How about you bring Marzia and Chiara to practice this afternoon?" he suggests. My expression changes from surprised to excited.
"Of course I will, Dad."
Mi, Re. It doesn't sounds like anything to me.
Mi, Do. Wait! I'm sure it was Re.
Mi, Re. Definitely not.
"Stop," I tell them suddenly. Marzia frowns at me. Chiara stops playing the cello and I take my fingers off the piano keys. "That sounded awful," I growl.
"It wasn't that bad," Chiara says nonchalantly.
"I didn't give with the note," I insist, somewhat overwhelmed.
"I didn't even notice," Marzia comments, turning her attention back to the violin.
"It´s only two days for the concert and I can't play correctly," I exclaim with annoyance.
"Stop worrying that much!" Chiara says, walking to the window. "There will be too much noise for someone in the audience notice that you can't give with the note." In part I admit that she is right. I´ve been practicing Für Elise all morning and the difference in sounds, although not the same, is negligible. My fingers hurt. "You're one of the best, Elio," she continues. "You will not fail." She turns around and almost leans against the window frame.
"Chiara, what are you doing?" Marzia asks.
"I'm trying to get inspired by this spectacular view," she replies, and based on her insinuating smile I can asume it hasn´t anything to do with the vineyard. Marzia stands up and walks over her to see. "He is shirtless."
"Who?" I ask.
"Oliver," Marzia says. Chiara bites her lower lip.
I refuse to stand up to accompany them. My pride forbids me, although a strange curiosity suddenly invades me and forces me to leave the piano and go to the window.
"He's so hot!" says Chiara, pronouncing each word with desire.
I look at Oliver. He is with Dad and Pedro, taking boxes out of the barn room. They will be there for a while, there are too many boxes. On the other hand, it is true that he is without shirt and all sweaty for have being working under the sun, which is stronger today than in previous days. A certain feeling of guilt invades me.
"Do you think if I ask him to go out, he will accept?" Chiara asks. She holds her chin with one hand and looks outside with a smile.
"Anyone would accept," Marzia replies, "you're gorgeous. You´re just lack confidence."
"Everybody tells me the same thing," Chiara says with a disappointed face, "and in the end I always end up alone." She arches an eyebrow. Marzia and I laugh.
After a while I look back at Oliver, and I decide to do it carefully, because I'm trying to figure out what is that "great thing" that my friends see on him and I just can´t. Is it his physical? His height? His blonde hair? His tan...? It looks very different from the Italians, and perhaps is that distinctiveness that makes him so unique in the eyes of Chiara, or anyone who appreciates it.
Beads of sweat fall down his back. Chiara starts to moan. Marzia laughs, and I get serious…extremely serious, because I feel a sudden change in my body that paralyzes me. My crotch is throbbing and the only thing I can do before one of my friends notices it is run to the bathroom.
"Elio, what´s wrong?" Marzia asks me, a little shoked by my hurry.
"I need to pee!" I scream, and lock myself in the bathroom. I sit on the toilet and turn the faucet on so they won't get suspicious. I take a deep breath as I count to ten.
One… I try to calm down.
Two… stays the same.
Three… it´s hard as stone.
Four… it starts working.
Five... I force myself to imagine my parents' faces, and with that the desire is annihilated.
Six… it´s going down.
Seven… it feels normal now.
Eight… what the fuck just happened to me?
….
I stand in front of the mirror in my room to observe myself. I like how the suit looks on me, I don't think I ever looked so sophisticated. I look at Mom out of the corner of my eye and find her smiling. There is an emotional sparkle in her gaze.
"How you feel?" She asks me, sat at the foot of my bed.
"I feel nervous, anxious, excited and impatient," I reply. She lets out a laugh and I feel that all this accumulation of sensations takes over my body. I listen to my racing heartbeat as I check my wrist watch over and over again.
One hour left to eight, the exact time when the theater curtains open to the public and all the members of the orchestra must be on stage, ready to give the show.
"So… are we going?" Mom tells me, after hearing Dad's horn in the garden.
We walked downstairs hurried and locked the house. Mafalda and Dad are waiting for us in the car. Mom occupies the front passenger seat while I sit in the back next to Mafalda. I take a look at her.
"You look beautiful," I confess. She looks at me with watery eyes and hugs me tight. "I'm very glad you agreed to come."
"I wouldn't miss it for anything," she whispers in my ear, then kisses my forehead.
Mafalda is the person who has endured all my tantrums as a child without complaining even once. She's been more patient with me than my parents were, and that's one of the reasons why I love her that much. And another reason is because she is just great.
"Ready?" Dad asks me, turning the engine on. He looks at me in the rearview mirror and smiles. I nod and we head towards the theater.
I admit that the good thing about being a pianist is that, unlike Marzia or Chiara, who have to bring their own instruments to the shows, I am lucky enough not to carry the piano with me. I smile at that thought as I look at the landscape that the night offers on the other side of the window. The images blur like a multicolored watercolor.
Dad makes me get out to enter the parking lot.
"We're going straight to the seats," he tells me cheerfully. "Just calm down. You will do it great."
I get out of the car and approach the orchestra team, as my family enters the theater through the main door. My colleagues, who are already part of my intimate group of friends, look at me excited when they see me arriving.
"Elio!" Marzia exclaims excited, she doesn't wait for me to approach her, she comes and gives me a tigh hug. "You arrived just in time, we must enter now." She wraps her arm around me as she pulls me in.
We walk through a dimly lit hallway and I dare to deviate from the rest for a few seconds to peek behind the curtain; It's full of people! The murmur of their voices as they talk and laugh resonates in every corner.
I look at my parents. Mom and Dad are sitting together, and next to Mom is Mafalda. I turn my attention to Dad and notice that he is talking animatedly to a man. I feel my chest squeeze when I see him. It's Oliver! What is he doing there?
His presence surprises me, because of all the people I thought would come to see me, I never expected him. He doesn't like classical music, or at least that's what I thought.
I walk away from the curtains and return to my friends. Cris and Mario are warming up their throats to play the trumpets, as corresponds to wind instruments. Meanwhile, Marzia and Chiara, concentrated, tune the strings of the violin and cello.
"Come here," the teacher tells us, and I join the circle that forms among the musicians. I hear her say some words of encouragement before the show, telling us how proud she is of us and how well we're sure to play tonight. She doesn't mention the time I missed at practice last week, and thank good, because I'm already too anxious to handle any additional pressure. We held hands and shout a big hooray! "To your positions," she orders, and we strictly obey.
We stand in line, facing the audience, while the technical staff draws back the curtain and a horde of applauses fills every corner of the room. I sit on the bench in front of the piano and wait for my teacher to tell me to start. The lights come on and illuminate me when I start playing, and it sounds spectacularly good.
I keep going and I close my eyes to savor each note. After a few seconds, Marzia begins to accompany me with the violin, and then all the instruments join in. The piano is now just one more sound that contributes to that beautiful sonata. And I feel more relaxed now, because my solo has over...
After the show, and already relieved and excited, we agreed with my group of friends to go and celebrate the evening at Chiara's house. She told me that her parents organized a dinner for all the musicians in the open air in the garden. His parents will go with my parents and Marzia's to celebrate together with other adults at the ranch of Mr. Pujol, Lucas's uncle, the group's clarinetist.
"Elio," my mother calls me, standing under the lamp of the theater parking lot. "Why don't you invite Oliver to go with you?" she proposes to me. I glance at the American, who is chatting amusedly with Dad. I think carefully. "We are going to the outskirts of Verona…" she continues. "It would be a good idea for Oliver to spend time with people his age instead of us. The poor guy stays next to us all the time and he doesn't say anything, but I notice that sometimes he gets bored."
I admit that Oliver has been very good to me this week. Giving me back my room was a great act of consideration. Maybe Mom is right and I should give him a chance after all.
"Okay," I reply. I turn and head towards Oliver. I touch his shoulder to get his attention. He looks at me.
"My favorite pianist," he whispers, flashing a smile that shows off his perfect pearly teeth.
That smile added to his gray gaze makes my pulse race. I have no idea why I'm suddenly nervous, or why I feel hot.
"We're going to a party with the rest of the musicians, do you want to come?" I put my hands in the front pockets of my jeans while he meditates. "It's either that or going with my parents to Mr. Pujol's house," I continue, and laugh out loud.
He looks away.
"I love spending time with your parents, don't get me wrong," he says, "but maybe I need something more… hectic." He winks at me and smiles.
My pulse races again; the memories of what happened to me after seeing him shirtless that time at home, during the meeting with Chiara and Marzia, keeps me on alert.
The preparation is quite noticeable because the decoration is beautiful; Chiara's parents set up a table in the center of the garden and a dancing place in the barbecue area. The multicolored lights give it a special touch.
We are alone, without adults in between. Only the team of musicians and Oliver. Suddenly, Chiara sees her chance. She takes Oliver´s hand and go to the dance floor to dance with him Lady, Lady, by Joe Esposito. The melody is captivating and transporting. They dance in an entertaining way, at a frenetic pace. They whisper in each other's ears and touch their noses. I light a cigarette, out of nerves, and pour more liquor into the glass.
Someone puts a hand on my shoulder and I turn to see who it is.
"Shit!" Marzia says in my ear. "Chiara is determined to conquer the American!" she exclaims.
When I turn to look at them again, they are kissing. I feel a visceral hit in my stomach. She touches Oliver's hair passionately as he grabs her waist to pull her closer.
"I think it's time to go home," I exclaim out of nowhere and suddenly stand up.
"But we've only been here for two hours!" Marzia tells me and looks surprised at me.
"Yes, but I want to leave now," I insist, impatient. She tries to grab my hand, but I reject it. "I'll tell Oliver." I walk towards the garden and stop in front of him and Chiara. They both seem too busy to even notice my presence. "Oliver," I whisper, and only then he turns to look at me. "I'm going home."
I can notice that my comment surprise him, though there is no disappointment in his expression. But it does in Chiara's, who looks suddenly sad.
"Okay. I'm going with you," he says. He kisses Chiara on the lips and my stomach hurts again. He breaks the hug with her and accompanies me to greet the rest of the group.
"It's cold now," I tell Oliver as we walk back to my parents´ house. It is early in the morning and the dew is freezing our skin. He doesn't answer, he seems lost in his thoughts. We remain in an awkward silence for a long time. "I notice you are worried…" I continue. It's the first time since I met him that the one pressured to start the conversation it´s me.
"I am, actually," he confesses. "I have to finish an essay and give it to your father tomorrow." He grabs a box of cigarettes from the pocket of his shorts. "And the truth is that what I wrote seems all rubbish to me." Smokes. "Do you want?"
I let out a laugh as I grab a cigarette.
"Come on! It can´t be that bad," I reply. He shrugs. "Maybe it had sense when you wrote it." I look forward. We still have a long tree-lined path to walk, it´s a bit scary with the darkness that surrounds us. "Besides, I doubt my father will be mad at you for anything. He really likes you."
"I think he just puts up with me," he says.
I quickly turn to him. His comment just stumped me.
"That isn't true! He likes you more than me," I exclaim and keep walking. After a few seconds I realize that he has stopped behind me. I turn to see, he is somewhat dismayed.
"Is that what's been bothering you all this time?" he asks me. I do not answer. Instead, I look down. "Elio, I would never steal your place or try to take something that belongs to you. And your father doesn't prefer me over you. Don't say that nonsense again."
"Okay…" I slutter. I don't think I have the necessary sobriety for a sensitive topic like this, and I'm afraid to open my mouth and say something stupid. "I know you wouldn't," I tell him, then I turn around and continue walking. He comes trotting to me. "And maybe you should let me read your essay to determinate if it makes sense or not."
"At this hour and after all we drank?" he asks me smiling.
"Why not?" I ask in the same way, this time for real. The nerves of the beginning start to dissipate.
"Okay," he tells me doubtly. "But I warn you, that place is a mess. I haven't finished it yet".
We keep going a few more meters until we see the barn. We walk around the side and go straight into the little room built behind it.
"Wow! I exclaim. "I can see you didn't lie to me!" I tell him, appreciating the mess of clothes, shoes, and books on the bed. "I even want to help you clean all this disaster, I swear."
"Nothing of that." He laughs and gives me a chair to sit, but I refuse. I decide, instead, to stand up in front of the tiny library near the window, and begin to inspect them one by one while Oliver goes to the kitchen. "Do you want something to drink? More liquor…?" he asks as he checks the fridge.
"Water is fine," I tell him. I turn my gaze to a book that catches my attention. I grab it and feel my chest beating so hard that I'm afraid Oliver hear it. "Do you like Hamlet?" I ask him surprised, then turn around to grab the glass of water.
"Of course," he replies, sitting on the bed and looking for something among the mess.
"What is your favorite phrase?" I love to finally knowing someone that enjoys baroque literature such as I do. I'm so excited I think I sound like a kid in a toy store.
"There are too many to choose only one..." he tells me thoughtfully. "But the first that always comes to my mind is where small fears grow, great love grows too." He spells it so slowly that the hairs on my forearms stand on end.
"It's good. How about this one? Death, the unexplored country from which no traveler returns."
"Beautiful and sad at the same time," he appreciates. "Above all, be true to yourself," he whispers.
"Courage is the soul of cleverness," I say loud and clear, growing excited by the thought that Oliver must have read Hamlet many times, because he remembers the lines that accurately as I do.
"She's so conjunctive to my life and my soul," he says.
"Yours forever, as long as this body exists." As fast as I said it I realized that the sentence sounded a bit inapropied for this moment. I feel sudden heat on my cheeks. I turn quickly and leave the book where it was.
"This is the essay I was telling you about," he says, seeming not to notice my discomfort. I sit next to him, at the bottom of the bed, and hold the paper. "It's not Hamlet, I warn you. And I'm sure it's going to be the most boring thing you read today."
I laugh and start reading. It's not a long text, it only takes me five minutes to finish it, and when I get to the end, I feel like I didn't understand the main topic.
"What is the need to talk about rivers in archaeology?" I ask him.
He looks at me and raises an eyebrow.
"Well... as Heraclitus said, nobody bathes twice in the same river, because neither you nor the river will be the same the second time you meet," he explains, leaning back on the mountain of clothes on the bed. "What I wanted to say is that a piece of ceramic, a piece of wood, a bone, a stone... will not be the same over the centuries. No matter how much the team of archaeologists and I unearth an object that belonged to ancient cultures, we can imagine the use it was given it in that community, but we will never fully know its true meaning."
"Sounds coherent now that you mention it," I mused.
"I don't know," he answers, dejected. "The fact that you didn't understand at first makes me think it's written poorly." He snatches the sheet of paper from my hand, crumples it and throws it on the floor. "I'm going to write something else in the morning, when my head is clearer. Now I can't think. I'm not like you, that the creative genius comes to you at night."
"The creative genius...?" I ask, puzzled.
"Yes," he answers confidently. "You didn't realize, because you were too focused during the show, but you played spectacularly. Your mates didn´t stop observing you with admiration." He smiles. "You play better at night, while in the morning you get distracted."
I look at him with wide eyes.
"How did you realize?" I'm surprised, because I hadn't even noticed it, but now that I think about it and count the times I deciphered the most difficult notes, I remember that it was indeed night.
"I watch you much more than you think, Elio," he tells me. Our eyes meet and the heat rises to my face again, while a betraying silence begins to invade us. Oliver seems to realize this and immediately looks away. "Go to sleep. You had a very long day today and I don't want to keep boring you with my failed essays." He laughs.
I stand up and walk to the door.
"See you tomorrow," I say and walk out. I close the door and take several seconds to contemplate the estatic roundness of the full moon. I have rarely seen it as silver as now. The chirping of crickets helps to create an environment that comforts me.
Suddenly I hear the rain of a shawer and I realize that Oliver is taking a bath; I imagine that he tries to get rid of the drunkenness. My heart is beating loudly. I try to suppress my instincts, but they take hold of me with greater force than before. I can't fight against them, I feel like I'm in a drunken state that makes me weak.
I walk in reverse and approach the bathroom from outside to watch through the window. I see him naked under the shower. I look his legs, his stomach, his chest, his back, his arms, his hair and I even appreciate the poetic way in which the drops of water slide down his nose until they reach his chin.
The hairs on his pectorals fill me with desire. I narrow my eyes and begin to imagine I'm smelling his perfume, which is strong, acid and heady. I come to my senses when I notice that the windows are so foggy that they no longer let me see clearly, so I have no choice but to walk towards home.
"Did anyone see the book I was reading?" Mom asks, walking into the tea room. She finds me playing Moonlight Sonata, a new one that my teacher suggested I practice for the next show, and that I didn´t dare to play until today.
"What book?" Dad asks, standing in the doorway. I immediately turn around when I hear his voice.
"Have you being there all the time, Dad?" I ask him. "I thought I was alone." He laughs and shrugs.
"I didn't want to interrupt you while you were playing," he tells me. "By the way, it sounded beautiful."
Mom continues searching insistently the book and I have no choice but to stop playing the piano and help her.
"Is that the one in German?" Dad asks.
"Yes, that one," she answers. "I'm halfway through and I want to take advantage of the fact that I have time today… there it is!" she says, pointing with her finger. She grabs it. "Maybe Mafalda left it here." She walks over to the couch, also Dad, and indicates me with a hand that sit near them. "You'll like this story, Elio," she whispers while I settle placidly on the cushions.
"Translate it out loud, Mom," I ask her, and she begins:
"A handsome gentleman is very much in love with a princess," she says, and with such peace in her voice that she manages to completely capture my attention. "And she is also in love with him, although she seems not to be very aware of it. Despite the friendship that blossoms between them, or perhaps because of that very friendship, the young gentleman finds himself so intimidated and speechless that he is totally unable to bring up his love. Until one day the princess asks him directly: is it better to speak or die?" Mom stops telling the story and looks at me.
"I wonder if one day I'll have the courage to say something like that." I raise an eyebrow and look down. Dad pats me on the back.
"I'm sure you will, honey," Mom whispers to me and continues reading.
After noon I find myself with one of the hottest evennings I´ve ever had. I won't read Hamlet this time, because I don't think I can concentrate on reading in this sweltering heat. I put on the sunglasses in the best "Oliver style" and hold a basket to collect apricots from the trees in the garden.
"Hello," I greet the American, who is also wearing sunglasses. He is with his feet submerged in the pool and too focused on watching the water. Apparently my greeting takes him out of his musings.
"Hello," he says to me, jumping to his feet and walking over to the same apricot tree. Start collecting the fruits and putting them in the basket.
"I didn't ask you to help me," I say, surprised by his sudden kindness.
"You don´t need to," he tells me, and too serious to believe this is one of his jokes. "It's my own will, you know?"
Mom is a few meters from us, hanging the clothes out in the sun. As she walks away to go into the house, Oliver defiantly approaches me and raises his glasses. He looks at me strangely, there's no docility in his gray eyes this time. He seems pissed off, and his tone of voice sounds much lower than normal.
"You once said that Americans were rude." He looks at me harshly, "but the Europeans have their stuff. Spying on someone while is taking a bath is much worse, Elio."
I feel the blood going down to my feet. All I can hear is the deafening beating of my heart. It´s so loud that even Oliver must be hearing it now.
I don't know what to say, so I choose not to say anything, because I'm sure any word will sound ridiculous and unbelievable. And to top it all off, he keeps looking at me harshly.
"Say something Elio." I'm suffering. I would like to be locked in my room. "Or I´ll really have reasons to believe that you like me."
My breath shorts. I look anywhere but into his inquisitive eyes. Suddenly, a memory crosses my mind like an arrow; The words that came out of my mouth after Mom read me the knight's tale this morning come over and over to my head: I wonder if I'll ever be brave enough to say everything I think. These words chilled me like a bucket of ice water. Is it better to speak or die?
Oliver continues looking at me with expectation.
"It's true," I whisper weakly. I still don't look at him in the eyes. "And I'm not sorry." At this point I can't believe those words are coming out of my mouth, "because I will do it again."
He takes a few seconds to analyze me, as if he wanted to see my thoughts. And, at the same time, I realize that he is also confused by what he has just heard.
"I'm not angry about your behavior, Elio," he tells me as an ultimatum, "and I'm not going to tell anyone," he continues, "but it's not a good idea." He turns around.
"Why not?" I ask him with a broken voice. He stops after listening to me. "Are you ashamed?"
"It's not that," he answers, and after a few seconds he says, "you're too small."
"It isn't true! Chiara is almost the same age as me and I'm sure you didn't tell her that."
"She is three years older than you."
"What a difference!" I say, rolling my eyes.
I hear him sigh and after a while, without even saying goodbye, he walks away.
I came to the lake about four; the sun isn't as hot now as it was at noon, so I feel free to take off my shirt without fear of ending up like a tomato. I sit on the water-worn rocks and dive my feet into the water. Sometimes I play to leave them there for a long time without moving, to see if fishes come closer. I throw them breadcrumbs that I've stolen to Mafalda. I hope she doesn't notice.
"Here you are." I hear his deep voice very close. I turn to look and, indeed, it's him. Leaves the bike near the same tree I left mine, and comes over to sit by my side.
We don't say anything to each other. Not a word, because the silence speaks itself. I already said everything I thought, and I'm pleased with myself for that. I'm going to ask Mom to read me knight's tales more often.
Instead, Oliver appears to be in another planet. He sighs all the time, I notice him serious, thoughtful... I approach his hand and caress him slowly.
"You'll keep insisting, don't you?" He asks, without looking me directly in the eyes. Then, he contemplates the movement of the water that flows to the rhythm of the wind.
"Yes," I respond with an inappropriate boldness that comes from I don't know where. I put my hand on his leg and start touching him, little by little, until I reach his crotch.
"Elio, no," he warns me, but he doesn't move an inch, neither I do. "Elio…" My hand is now touching his erection.
"Am I offending you?" I ask, and I can feel it grows with my touch. He takes my hand and very gently pushes it to a side.
"I already told you it's not a good idea," he repeats defiantly. "I knew you'd be here. I only came to advise you to stop, because it's not going to happen…" He lowers his gaze and we remain silent.
I reflect as I look at the free-flowing water of the lake.
"Don't you like me?" It seems to me that I just put him under pressure, because he blinks heavily.
"I don't know you, Elio," he warns me, "but I do know myself. That's why I asked you to stop." He gets up and rides away on his bike.
I didn't see him again that day; he stayed locked in the barn room. About me, I rethought a thousand of times what I said, and in all that times I didn't regret even once. I'd rather talk than die.
Days went by since I let Oliver know I like him, and with each new dawn I felt the feeling was growing swiftly. It seems incredible that until today it was me who wanted nothing to do with him. I just couldn't see him or hear his strong voice echoing throughout the house. I couldn't stand him. And now, like a sarcastic twist of fate, I'm the one who looks for him. I'm the one who loves him. I'm desperate to spend time with him and I'm who holds the gaze for several seconds during the meals, seeking the warmth of his beautiful gray eyes.
He, on the other hand, is now who avoids me, the one who hides behind endless silences when we are together, the one who spends the whole day in the barn room and the one who ignores me in a savage and cruel way…
Hurrah! I'm finally done with this One-Shot yaoi challenge! I hope you like it :) The movie is based on the book Call me by your name by Andre Aciman. It's a worthwhile story, I swear
Thanks for reading