Chapter Text
The first time around is quite awkward.
Coming up with an excuse wasn't particularly difficult for me; I really had a conference nearby. Rome called me in for work, it was just a few hours train ride, no inconvenience at all, I keep repeating to Mr. and Mrs. Perlman when I show up unannounced to their doorstep one late December afternoon, baggage in hand and all, ready to stay if they'd have me.
Of course they'd have me, thank goodness, because I don't have a backup plan.
My plan was to surprise them, I add, it was quite the safe bet to assume they'd be spending the holidays at the villa, I'd be delighted to spend a couple days with them before heading back to the States, is Elio around too by any chance?
Mrs. Perlman's lips curve into a tight smile. "He's upstairs, go say hi. He'll be thrilled to see you," The Professor says. "Just, knock, will you? He has company."
I knock on the door that leads to my old room, I quickly manage to check my breath with the same trembling hand, and when Elio pulls the door open I know I could forsake all food and drink and live off the look of delighted shock in his features for a week or two.
"Holy shit," Elio says without any filter, failing to conceal his astonishment, or not trying at all.
He is a walking, living memory, that boy, as if time and its unchanging laws don't apply when it comes to him.
Of course I can't say he still looks seventeen, because he doesn't; his jawline is sharper now - I would love nothing more than to trace it with my fingertips but I discard the thought quickly - the round, baby-like cheeks I remembered have transformed into stronger, more violently gorgeous facial features, but the leniency of the twenty-five years of his life is out for everyone to see. If anything, he looks exactly like he did the year before, the last time I saw him.
I don't have a chance to say a word before a head pops up sideways from the door frame. "Oliver!" Maurizio, Elio's boyfriend from last summer who is evidently still around, greets me with great enthusiasm, opening his mouth and eyes wide in surprise. I shake the hand he offers me, and I can't help but wonder if he would be so welcoming if he knew I had spent a considerable amount of time from my last visit fucking his boyfriend's brains out whenever he wasn't looking.
I figure Elio must be thinking the same thing I am, and judging from the way he uncomfortably lowers his gaze to the floor, avoiding eye contact, I can only assume that my conjecture is accurate.
"Oliver, I..." Elio visibly tries to shake it off. "I wish you..." He narrows his eyes and tilts his head towards his boyfriend. "Called."
I notice every little detail, from the way he squirms in place to his hesitant tone of voice and the darting of his eyes from my face to the floor and back again. I glance at Maurizio, fairly certain he's bound to figure out his boyfriend is being swept off his feet in front of his very eyes, but he looks blissfully unaware as he announces he's promised Mafalda he'd set up the table for dinner, he'll just get done with it now so they won't get interrupted later, be right back to catch up.
We don't say a word as he climbs down the stairs, but as soon as the sound of Maurizio's steps starts to fade away in the distance the fog of confusion and uncertainty between us begins to clear away, if only barely. Elio's façade is the first to crumble.
"You should've called," he says briskly, but looks like he regrets it right away. "Sorry. Hi," He scrapes at his nape, uncomfortably shifting balance from one foot to the other.
"Hi," I reply with the warmest of smiles, the kind that reaches the eyes. "It's okay. You're right," I dismiss Elio's apology with a hand gesture, as if shooing away an annoying bug buzzing around my face. "I should have called. I didn't mean to make things awkward. Thing is I wasn't really sure I'd actually follow through until I was, well... sitting in the car in your yard, if I'm being honest." I huff an awkward laugh.
Elio doesn't reply to that, but his gaze softens. His hand is still on the door frame, his knuckles unnaturally white.
"I thought..." I pause, unsure of how to continue. What was I thinking? Yes, we'd slipped into our old habits last year, even upped our stakes by giving in to lust despite a wife, despite a boyfriend, and sure, that hadn't come easy, we'd danced around each other at first, desperately trying to avoid giving in in our own messed up way, but as much as I like to think our arrangement has no expiration date we never truly spelled it out, Elio never said I'll be waiting for you or some other corny nonsense.
Before I can say anything else, Elio interrupts me. "Come find me tonight," he says quickly, sensing the approaching footsteps. "I'll come up with an excuse to send him away."
I can't answer, in part because Maurizio is standing beside me again, in part because I'm so taken aback by Elio's boldness my breath gets stuck in my throat.
I should know by now, how that boy operates — presenting himself as shy and insecure one minute just to turn it all upside down the moment he lays his finger on what he wants and puts his mind to it.
Maurizio picks up my suitcase from the floor. "Elio, have you forgotten your manners?" he jokes, gesturing for me to follow him. "Come on, Oliver, let's get you all settled in."
Elio and I share a charged smile only we can see, and as the night wears on, with the tension mounting over dinner and the playful nudges under the table fueled by wine, I begin to contemplate when would be the right moment to seek him out. But before I can decide Elio beats me to it, appearing in the shared bathroom as I'm washing my face, swiftly closing the door behind him.
"He's here," he says before I can react to his presence. "I pretended to be sick to send him home for the night, but he insists on staying to look after me. I can't push him too hard," He runs his hand through his hair in an nervous gesture.
"Okay," I reply, and it's clear it's not okay at all, far from it. "I just... needed to talk to you."
Elio smirks and takes a step towards me. "That's cute," Another step closer. "You came all the way here just to talk. Speak, then."
I can feel the heat emanating from his body now, and it's making it hard to think straight. I know I can't dare to touch him now that his boyfriend is one brick wall away, and Elio must be aware of this too, but our dynamic remains unchanged; every crumb of self-control, of restraint I manage to construct Elio takes it upon himself to eradicate, no matter if he's damaging himself as well in the process.
"I need to know where we stand," I blurt out. It's true; it's all I can think about. It's been weighting on me since I learned about this work trip and maybe even before that, probably from the moment I boarded the flight that brought me back to the States a year ago.
"Right now, we're standing in the bathroom." I've missed Elio's signature wit, I realize, and I love how despite all the years apart I can still see right through his attempts to steer the conversation; he's calling me out on my bullshit, gently making it clear that he not even for a second believes I'm here to talk.
He's looking up at me, invading my personal space now, and I can't resist raising my hands and placing them on his hips. He doesn't pull away entirely, but he does hesitate.
"No, I can't," He's smiling though, his words almost a purr. "If we kiss, I'm going to let you fuck me," Matter-of-factly, like it's not supposed to get any reaction out of me at all. "And even though my boyfriend might be a heavy sleeper, he's still in the other room."
I take a moment to let that sink in, then I raise my hands in defeat. "I suppose that clears up my doubts," I smile.
"You want to know if you can expect to show up at a moment's notice and get lucky with me regardless of my relationship status. I can respect that," Elio, true to himself, addresses the implications head-on. He's never been one for undertones. "If you recall, I was the one pursuing you last time. Do you remember that?"
"Very clearly."
"Nothing changed on my end, I can assure you of that."
"I didn't want to presume."
Elio gives me a brief pat on the shoulder and a smile. "Good night, Oliver."
He's turning to leave, and my brain shuts down; I grab Elio by his arm and pull him to my chest. I deny him - and myself, for that matter - any time to process what's happening. I cup his face in my hands and kiss him deeply, and he responds immediately, crossing his hands on my nape and raising himself on his tiptoes to wrap his arms around my neck, pressing closer to me, so close that I'm forced to back up until I hit the wall behind me, and my hands wander onto his back, stroking, gripping, travelling down his thin pajama bottoms until I can hook my fingers under his thigh and yank it upwards with almost no effort at all because Elio is following my lead, he locks his foot behind my calf and lets our groins collide, his tongue never leaving my mouth.
I weave my fingers into Elio's hair after a few long moments, tugging gently but firmly, signaling for him to move back, which he eventually does, albeit disapprovingly. I indulge him with a final, brief peck and I make an effort to smother his attempts to deepen it again.
"You weren't really expecting me to let you walk away without a kiss," I breathe on his damp lips.
Elio plants both his feet firmly on the floor but doesn't back up, our bodies still aligned. He closes his eyes. "Fuck, you shouldn't have done that," he whispers in defeat.
"Sleep well," I say nonchalantly as if nothing happened, and Elio runs his hand down my chest and grabs at my clothed erection, taking control once again. "You better be around when Maurizio leaves for work tomorrow," he rasps.
I make sure I am, I escape the attempts of the Professor to discuss my academic essays and dodge the piercing stares of Mrs. Perlman, I say goodbye to Maurizio knowing I will be gone by the time he returns and not ten minutes later I'm rolling around on Elio's sheets with Elio's nails digging into my back.
It feels like returning home after a long absence; everything is exactly where it was left, only covered in a thin layer of dust. The rooms need a good airing out and an undefined sense of newness hangs in the space, but it's all overshadowed by the feeling of familiarity and comfort — a sense of belonging.
The desire needed to be fed before we could move on, the tension was impossible to put aside. Sex is a relief in more ways than one, because when we're done with it the urgency that's been driving all our gestures momentarily loosens its grip on us and I can finally indulge myself, kiss him slowly and with purpose, I can take my time savoring Elio's mouth and his face, tracing a path with my lips from his neck to his collarbone and back up again.
And we can talk, really talk.
We fill each other in about everything going on in our lives. We discuss our recent reads, Elio tells me about this silly thing that happened the other day. We mention my sons, but only in passing. We touch, we make out like teenagers.
Surprisingly, we also openly discuss what's unfolding between us at that very moment.
"I had been wondering if last year was a one-time thing or not. I couldn't tell if you were dropping hints that you wanted more or if it was merely wishful thinking on my part," I whisper, my lips brushing the top of Elio's head with every word.
Elio absentmindedly traces his fingers up and down my arm. "So, the work trip was real?"
"Oh, yes," I reply, my words brimming with relief. "God, I've been waiting for a conference in Italy for what felt like forever. It felt like everyone in my department got to go except me."
Elio chuckles. "You don't need an excuse to come visit, you know."
My smile falters momentarily, and he picks up on it.
"But I do," I reply.
For a fleeting moment, I see the ghostly presence of Micol reflected in Elio's eyes, a specter without a name that he's not keen on acknowledging. But he simply shrugs.
"I know what you mean," I concede, tilting his head towards mine and planting a soft kiss on his lips. "It's good to know."
I hold him to that when I show up in Milan just a few months later, but all things considered the second time around is still awkward.
We don't keep in touch when we let our parallel lives run their courses. I don't have his phone number and he doesn't have mine, but my correspondence with the Professor stays prolific and meticulous as usual, so I know for sure I'll find Elio in via Conservatorio that afternoon.
And there he is, with slightly longer hair and flushed cheeks from the fatigue of long classes, wearing an open-necked white shirt that billows in the warm breeze.
Hand in hand with a pretty girl.
I don't have the time to sort through the myriad of emotions swirling in my stomach and choose the right one to show on my face when I approach them, because he spots me almost immediately. Does he, too, feel the world shift on its axis when we orbit each other at close range?
"Oliver," he exclaims and pulls me into a tight embrace. The hug only lasts for a second or two, but it's enough for his scent to get to my head. "What are you doing here?"
I mutter something about a conference tour in Europe, but my attention is diverted towards the girl beside him, her blonde hair in a messy bun, her wide eyes taking me in with a curious glance. She looks beautiful and I can see how she's Elio's type.
The question is, how serious are they?
"This is Daniela," Elio introduces her to me, putting me out of my misery. "She's my girlfriend."
My gaze lingers on Elio for a moment longer before I turn to Daniela and offer a smile and my hand for a handshake. She greets me warmly in heavily accented English and then plants a kiss on both my cheeks.
Classes have wrapped up for the day and they're headed to Elio's place, so he asks if I'm free to walk with them. It's just two blocks away, he assures me, knowing fully well that I'd do anything he asks of me — the hand he curled around me when we hugged is still on my shoulder, and though he's barely applying any pressure I feel it burn over my clothes, overly conscious of his proximity. I force a smile and tell them to lead the way, feeling frustrated with myself for being so weak around him.
Elio's two-room apartment is small and sparsely furnished, yet his personality jumps out throughout the space. The messy music sheets scattered at the foot of his unmade bed give me a glimpse of what his life would look like without Mafalda's constant tidying, and I can't help but smile as I spot an old record player taking up most of the tiny dining table, a clear indication that, as I already knew, Elio prioritizes music over mere bodily sustenance.
"I like your centerpiece," I joke, and Elio rests the needle on a record of Bach's cello suites and looks back at me in a silent nod of understanding before quickly turning to open the fridge, a small smile lingering on his lips.
The calming presence of the music filling the room guides my gaze around as it lands on bookshelves lined walls that, however, fail to contain the totality of Elio's readings — volumes and papers are spilling out all over, on the bed, on the desk, and I think I can see a battered paperback on the sink too. The walls are adorned with artwork posters, prints and papers covered in Elio's scrawled handwriting. Music related, mostly, but also a silly drawing of a stylized frog. A photograph of what looks like a young Anchise.
I can see his mind and his thoughts reflecting all around the confined space, which makes me fall in love with the place instantly. His personality fills the room up to the brim, and I feel the weight of my choices crush me as I instinctively find myself picturing how my pristine and aseptic house would look like if it were enriched by his presence, how I'd lay down my mundane life to let him clutter it up with his uniqueness.
He fixes an Aperol spritz for everyone and the three of us turn his tiny Italian balcony into our cocktail lounge. Clinking the ice cubes together in my glass, I gulp down half of the contents, impressed by its fresh and delicious taste. Elio and Daniela burst into laughter as I extol the virtues of Italian Prosecco, and even though I sense Elio's gaze on me I try to avoid meeting it, focusing on the conversation and on my drink and on the crisps they claim pair well with it.
I inquire about Daniela's background and how they met, and she describes using a very simple choice of words how she also attends the Conservatorio, specializing in the clarinet, and she jokes about meeting Elio in the most boring and ordinary way possible: through mutual friends in their class.
As we go from there and talk about music and art, sharing our favorite composers and painters, I get a distinct feeling of why they might be a good match; Daniela strikes me as a smart and educated person, and even though I've barely scratched the surface of who she is I can safely affirm I like her already. A great sense of humor, kind eyes, she seems to have it all – perfect for Elio.
I get evidence of their sweet connection when Elio leans in and whispers something in Italian to her ear, something I'm too rusty with the language to pick up on, and she responds by laughing warmly and rests her head on his shoulder affectionately.
Against my better judgement, I feel a jolt of jealousy and gloom.
After a while, just as the sun is about to set and the sky is turning orange, Daniela announces she's expected home for dinner and excuses herself. She hugs me tightly and kisses my cheek again, asking me to promise I'll visit them again soon. Mid-sentence, she reaches out and plants a brief, absentminded kiss on Elio's lips. I just stand there, staring at her mouth moving as she addresses me, unable to hear her words because I'm too busy reliving that moment in my mind, the image of someone else kissing Elio etched into my memory.
It had already happened; I'm shoved headfirst into a bittersweet memory of Maurizio kissing him goodnight after a complicated night at Le Danzing. I recall trying to play it cool, acting like it didn't bother me, but I couldn't help bringing it up to Elio and confessing how weird it felt. He just shrugged it off and said he had kissed many men and women after me, unapologetic.
It was the same night his alcohol-driven mind proposed the insane idea of pleasuring ourselves separately in each other's presence as to avoid the temptation to pleasure each other. It was the same night my own inebriated mind went with it, and things spiraled downwards from there.
As soon as Daniela slams the door closed, a renewed wave of guilt washes over me. I know fully well that, one way or the other, I was intruding on their bubble, that I showed up in the first place specifically to burst it, and I can't help but want to pop the can of soapy water open and watch the suds dissipate, no matter how much I like the girl, no matter how hard I beat myself over it.
I just stand there, unsure of what to say while Elio turns to me and offers a smile.
"I can't believe you sought me out here, too," he says, shaking his head. But his smile only grows wider, his eyes catching the yellowish artificial light of the room.
"I really am here for work," I answer him before he can ask. "Here, as in Europe. The closest stop was Berlin," I say, the truth tumbling out before I can decide to share it.
My confession elicits a weak laugh from him, and I seize the moment of pause to examine his face, which I didn't feel comfortable doing with his partner present, to search with my eyes the star of David that I caught sight of beneath his botton-up shirt earlier, and in my mind I grab it between my fingers and tug Elio forward — to do what, exactly, I'm not sure. Kissing him is out of question, not now that a new person is in the picture. Sure, Elio was unwavering last winter when he made very clear he hadn't changed his mind, but something obviously took a turn in his life in the meantime. Daniela wasn't Maurizio. Maybe she wasn't a fling.
I clear my throat, trying to push away the unwelcome thoughts, and change the subject. "Your apartment is great. It's so...you," I say, gesturing around the room. "I feel like I've walked into your brain."
Elio chuckles. "Yeah, it's a bit of a mess, isn't it?" He runs his hand through his hair and sighs. "I know I need to tidy up, but I just can't seem to find the time."
I nod, trying to come up with something, anything to say. "It's charming, really. I love what you've done with the place. And all these books," I offer, feeling like I'm failing at small talk. "You have quite the collection."
Despite my gesturing around the room, Elio's eyes remain fixed on me. He absentmindedly brings a hand to his loose collar and releases the top button from its loop, and I feel warmth bloom in my chest.
"Not much different from my old room. I've always been a bit of a hoarder, I guess," he says, then his tone changes to something lower and more intense. "I can't bear to part with anything that's meaningful to me."
He takes a step closer to me and unfastens the second button of his shirt, revealing more of his slender porcelain neck. His gaze flickers to my lips and back up to my eyes. "So, what are you waiting for? The starting gun?"
Afterward, I may feel ashamed of how readily I surrendered, how quickly my doubts and resolve crumbled to the ground, how even after years Elio still holds the reins in his hands; but not now. In this moment, all it takes is a snap of his fingers, and we're off.
We meet halfway, I grab him by his shirt and pull him to my chest, our bodies crash together, and we're kissing.
Elio's lips part eagerly, inviting me in, and I run my hand across his back until it's nestled on his head, until I can fist it into his hair and tug gently. His hands stay on his shirt, still undoing buttons one by one, struggling now that I'm not making it easy for him with my manhandling.
I decide to help him and forcefully slide it off his shoulder – I think I hear the last button tear off, but I don't care, he doesn't seem to care either – and I dive back in, the momentum pushing him backwards until he's pinned to the wall.
I trap him with my arms and pause my exploration of his mouth for a moment to scan the room, looking for any flat surface that will do the job, but he grabs my face and energetically tilts it towards his again.
"No time to clear the bed," he moans, reading my thoughts. "Fuck me here, fuck me standing up."
As he probably expected, his words go straight to my dick. I can barely think straight as I nod frenetically and proceed to strip both him and myself, letting all of our clothes pool on the floor, my hands moving of their own accord as lust clouds all my senses.
He's too eager to let me prepare him properly and gravity is a crushing force to be dealing with, so I know right from the start that it won't last long.
He is ridiculously light and I'm strong, so I lift him effortlessly at first; even when he removes his hands from my shoulders and I'm supporting him only by the thighs wrapped around my waist, I am not straining myself too much. Elio scrabbles at the wall, seeking support that the plaster cannot provide, so he keeps slipping up and down repeatedly as I thrust up into him, slowly but deeply.
I lean in and whisper in his ear, asking if he's okay, if I'm hurting him, but he firmly silences me and begs me to keep fucking him, to do it harder, he sobs that he's about to come.
I can tell that the angle works well for him, because he's moaning and arching his back every time I drive into him just right, but the pleasure is becoming so intense that my legs are starting to shake, and I'm not sure how much longer I can hold on. Ignoring his protesting groans, I guide his feet back to the floor, and for a moment I stop in my tracks; flushed cheeks, sweaty hair sticking to his forehead, eyes half-closed due to what I can only hope is ecstasy — he looks as stunning as always, if not more so. I cup his warm face in my hands and devour his mouth, hoping with all of myself that will be enough to extinguish the all-too-familiar feeling welling up inside me.
He moans in my mouth and covers my hands with his, kissing me back enthusiastically, but I break away and quickly flip him over by his shoulders. I shove him back against the wall and grab his chin between two fingers, gently rotating his head in my direction so I can sink my nose in his cheek at the same time I'm sinking into his body again, going for a more punishing pace this time.
"Fuck, Elio," I breath directly into his ear. "I've missed you so fucking much."
Elio lets out the sweetest sex-soaked noises and squeezes me from the inside in response, and a rush of overwhelming pleasure courses through my backbone; I bite hard on his shoulder and I come harder than I have in months, pushing him over the edge as well with the final, sharp thrusts that milk the orgasm out of me.
After taking some time to catch our breath, he turns to me and we both start laughing softly as our legs give out, too weak to keep us on our feet. I slide to the floor, kicking a couple of books away to make myself more comfortable. He playfully slaps my arm in mock outrage, but then he accidentally knocks one of his records off the desk while trying to join me on the floor and hides his face in his palm, covering an ashamed chuckle.
"Do you have to do this every time you get laid? Shit, Elio," I taunt him, my breath still labored, and he starts laughing harder. "Maybe you really should tidy up after all."
I chuckle with him, but then I take in the scattered books and records, the clothes strewn haphazardly on the floor, the empty bottle of Prosecco on the desk, and guilt slowly but steadily creeps its way into my chest. We've once again crossed a line that shouldn't have been crossed — the mess around us truly has nothing on the chaos we continue to cause.
Elio rolls his eyes and smirks, unaware of my inner turmoil. "Well, at least I have something to show for it. What do you do after you get laid? Just go back to grading papers?" He says, wiping his belly with his crumpled shirt.
I rise to my feet and stoop to retrieve my pants from the floor. "You won't catch me picking my underwear up from the ceiling fan, that's for sure," I reply dryly while slowly getting dressed.
Elio's brow furrows, and I exhale deeply, recognizing that I've overstepped my boundaries. It's not his fault that I have to deal with the repercussions of my misconduct, with the regret that accompanies it. Just because he made a sarcastic comment that reminded me of my life overseas, that doesn't mean I get to take out my frustration on him.
"I'm sorry," I plead, closing my eyes in surrender. "It's just... you know. Complicated."
Elio stands up too and slips into his pajama bottoms, his clothes forgotten on the floor.
"You really can't wrap your head around it, can you?" He asks softly, piling up the cluttered items on his bed and making space for himself to sit up against the wall. He brings his knees to his chest and pats the soft spot next to him, silently inviting me to join him.
"I understand more than you think," I reply, sitting down next to him and leaning my head back against the wall. "But it doesn't make it any easier."
We sit there in silence for a while, still basking in the aftermath of sex. Elio taps his fingers idly on my hand, and I like to think it's because he's considering holding it, without quite mustering the courage. The thought amuses me; he just let me fuck him roughly against a wall, yet he draws the line at hand-holding.
"How do you manage to do this?" I finally gather my thoughts and ask him. He looks at me with a quizzical expression, waiting for me to elaborate. "I mean, cheating. Doesn't it affect you?" I clarify.
Elio stares back at me as if I've grown a second head. "Cheating? I'm not a cheater," he declares, and I can sense the sincerity in his words.
I arch my head and give him an intense look, my lips curving into a sly smile. It's clear that I'm not convinced, and I wait for him to let down his guard and share the truth with me.
But he doesn't. "Oliver, I'm serious," he says in disbelief, as though I've made an absurd accusation.
"You have a girlfriend, and we just had sex," I remind him gently, leaving no room for denial.
The hurt in his eyes catches me off guard, and I wish I could retract my words.
"You have a wife," he snaps, yanking his hand away from mine. "You don't get to judge me."
"No, no, I know," I rush to say. "Trust me, I know. I'd never judge you for that. I don't have the moral high ground to."
"Damn right you don't. You took a vow. I didn't," His words are still ringing with anger, but his expression begins to soften.
"You don't need to remind me," I say quietly, reaching out to take his hand again. He hesitates for a few moments, then he holds it, lacing our fingers together.
The atmosphere between us is a strange mix of intimacy and tension, so I choose to just shut my mouth and relish that moment. I take note of the texture of his skin on mine, the rhythm of his breath on my shoulder, the comfort of his presence.
As I draw imaginary circles on the back of his hand with my finger, he breaks the silence.
"It's not like I'm proud of it, you know."
I nod in understanding.
"As you said... It's complicated," he goes on. "Daniela... I adore the crap out of her. But she knows we can never be more than this. It's not serious. It never is."
He emphasizes the last three words before turning away from me, as if to avoid my scrutiny.
"I really like that girl," I say sincerely.
Elio finally looks at me, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "It's a good thing you do, considering you had her boyfriend's dick in your mouth before she could even exit the building. Can you imagine if you didn't like her?"
I laugh out loud, grateful for the relief he brought to the conversation, and he takes the opportunity to steal a quick kiss. "Tell me, did you like Maurizio too? I'm sure you did," he teases me with both his words and fingers, mercilessly tickling me.
"What about him, anyway?" I ask in between laughter, trying to grab his wrists to stop the attack on my sides.
He stops tickling me and adopts the best fake expression of indignation he can manage. "The bastard cheated on me. Can you believe that guy?"
I laugh even harder at that, but then the tickling turns into tender touches, the pecks turn into open-mouthed kisses, he straddles my legs, and suddenly it's not funny anymore.
My hands instinctively raise to hold his naked waist, he leans down to kiss me, his hands tangled in my hair.
"Ready for round two?" He whispers hoarsely between kisses.
"Guess you need a rematch," I reply, my voice low. I run my hand up his back, gripping his nape, I flip us over until I'm on top, and I make love to him once again.
It gets easier and easier.
Over the years, I publish a couple of well-received essays that require me to speak on several stages away from home, and that always translates to Elio, no matter where he is located in that point in time.
Europe is just a small blip on my radar, and every road on the map leads to him.
Sometimes I just straight-up lie and fabricate a nonexistent conference, say that I'll visit the Professor, or claim I need to conduct some research abroad — it doesn't matter. Micol never probes, and I always end up warming Elio's bed.
Maurizio, Daniela, Federico, Nina, Maurizio again, Fabian — the names and faces of all his different boyfriends and girlfriends start to blend together over time, gradually becoming more and more immaterial and meaningless; Elio can only reassure me so many times before my sense of guilt and hesitation begin to fade and I stop asking whether he's sure, whether his current significant other might mean more to him than the others did.
It seems that they never mean much.
As Elio graduates from the Conservatorio and begins touring with a small orchestra, our rendezvous become even easier, for they no longer fall entirely on me. He gets a hold of my office phone number, he calls me whenever he's within a couple of states from me and I drop everything to move heaven and earth so that I can join him, whether it be for a day or an hour.
On one particular occasion I drive to Logan airport in Boston just to be with him during the one hour and a half of his stopover. We barely have time to grab a cup of coffee after I drag him into a stall in the men's bathroom to bend him over the sink and before he has to fly out.
But it's enough; it has to be.
We steal moments of passion whenever we can, wherever we can. Our lives continue to intersect at every given opportunity, and that's what keeps me grounded, what makes me hold on to an existence that feels alien and detached from my original purpose.
He never asks me to leave my wife. In fact, he doesn't acknowledge her existence; he doesn't even know her name. In the version of him that's living inside my head, the question is lying on the tip of his tongue, threatening to spill out every time he parts his lips to speak. Over time though, I begin to accept it as a self-indulgent thought that has no basis in reality.
To reciprocate, I put up a convincing act in which I don't mind his relationships as long as he keeps coming around to me. It's so believable that I eventually start to believe it myself.
We manage to meet once every other year, once a year, or twice if we're lucky, but refrain from staying connected during the long stretches of separation — at least until he starts using my office number in a manner that he must deem improper, because it begins with a feeble excuse, with him unconvincingly claiming he dialed the wrong number. I can sense the cheeky smile in his voice, though, and on the second occasion he already skips the part where he tries to come up with a justification.
We try to cut it short, usually, but it's the mere sound of his voice, of his breathing at the end of the line that does the trick.
"How are you doing?"
"Oh, you know. Same old, same old."
"Same here."
I picture him standing at a payphone outside a theater, nervously twirling the phone cord around his finger, and my heart swells at the completely made-up imagery.
"I wish I could see you right now," I say softly, unable to keep it in.
He falls silent, and I mentally slap myself for being too forward. I can hear the background noise of the city, the cars and people passing by, and I wonder where he is, what he's doing, who he's with. Ignorance is bliss, though, so I never ask.
He clears his throat.
"Yeah, I..." He hesitates for a moment, likely gathering his thoughts. "About that. That's what I wanted to say. Kind of. Just... Shit," the swearword sounds muffled, and I imagine it's because he's rubbing a hand on his face. "I'm not making any sense. Never mind."
"Elio, why did you call?" I ask with a mix of concern and curiosity, feeling there is something he's not telling me.
Another brief pause. "I just wanted to say hi," he says. I needed to hear your voice, I hear.
I don't get the chance to inquire further as he quickly says he needs to go. We exchange warm goodbyes, and before I know it I hear the click of the phone being hung up.
I linger on the line for a few more moments, trying to cling on the moment that just occurred, on the sweet vulnerability in his voice, foolishly wishing he could reach through the phone again and soothe my doubts. I click the handset into place, a surge of hopelessness making its way within me.
I know I'm addicted beyond a shadow of a doubt, willing to let myself survive in that destructive limbo indefinitely.
He finally tells me what he's been meaning to say in a hotel room in New York, our legs tangled in the silky white sheet of our king-sized bed, his head resting on my chest.
"I'm not sure I can keep doing this," he whispers, his fingers tracing the light perspiration on my skin and playing with my chest hair.
But looks like he can, because then he rolls on top of me and within a couple of minutes he's taking me inside of him again, rolling his hips agonizingly slow as he rides me, his eyelids fluttering closed every time I raise to meet his movements.
I get the feeling he's trying to make it last, to commit out lovemaking to memory, but I force myself to brush the intrusive thoughts aside for the time being, maybe so that I can follow suit.
I give him what he's silently asking for, I summon all my constraint and fuck into him at a pace so slow it's maddening, my thrusts driving as deep into his body as they can reach, I prop my feet on the mattress and sit up so I can take the shiver that's running up his spine and carry it upwards, my hand following the arch of his back until I can close a fist in his hair. I don't need to tug at it, though, because he's throwing his head back of his own accord, inviting me to attach my mouth to his pulse point, to nip at it gently.
He's moaning and shaking uncontrollably, his nails scratching at my chest as it tenses under the effort, and I know he's about to come, although he's clearly holding back — he loops an arm around the back of my neck and leans closer as he stutters in his pace, slowing his hips until he almost stops, but I can't take it; I grab at his nape and forcibly tilt his head back so I can look him in the eye and let our lips crash in a sloppy kiss.
"Let yourself come, baby," I groan. The pet name rolls off my tongue with ease, as if it's been there waiting to be let out all along. "Let it go."
His moans grow in pitch as I pick up the pace again, my hands sliding down to grab his hips and drag him into every forceful thrust, and soon it's all too much — the sight of Elio bouncing on top of me, the feel of it, the noises coming from him, even just his smell. It's overwhelming, but I hold back for him until I can see his orgasm on his face and feel it on my skin, until I can smile and swallow his sated moans, our lips grazing.
He's strangely quiet as I gather my belongings and prepare to leave, and I brace myself for what I know is coming.
He closes his eyes and takes a big breath, as if mustering all the energy he can spare.
"I don't think we should continue seeing each other," he says, cutting right to the chase.
As much as I suspected something was stirring in him, it still feels like a knife twisting in my gut. I just stare at him, silently pleading for an explanation I'm not sure I really need.
"I know you probably think I'm being unfair. And you have every right to," he's sitting cross-legged on the unmade bed, a weary expression on his face. "I was the one pushing for this, after all. But I guess I overestimated myself. I can't do this."
"Why?" I can't refrain from asking sharply.
Elio looks up at me, defeated. "You know why. Please don't make this harder than it already is by pretending you don't."
Of course I do, of course I know. It's wrong, what we've been doing. Destructive. Immoral. Foolish. Irresponsible. Harmful. It's always been, we just decided to turn a blind eye.
A wave of intense anger surges in my stomach and spreads through my body, I sense it tingling on my fingertips. Anger directed at Elio for initiating it all, at myself for allowing it, at my father for planting his corrupted influence in me, at the entire world for fostering and sustaining it.
"I'm not pretending at all," I say, trying to keep my voice neutral. "I just don't understand why now. Why, when we've been doing this for," I pause and count with my fingers. "Seven years now."
Elio rubs his face with his hands. "That's exactly the reason."
"Is guilt finally catching up with you?"
He jerks towards me and meets my gaze, his own anger building up. "There it is, the usual accusation of being heartless. Yeah, Oliver, I don't give a shit about anything. You got me there."
I start pacing the floor to contain my rage, not wanting to scare Elio, not wanting to take it out on him. "That is not what I meant, and you know it."
"What did you mean, then?"
"It's just... I've always envied your ability to compartmentalize. To arrange the people in your life into specific sections. To keep us separated from all the rest," I say with a trembling voice. "Even now... you're so calm about it."
Elio lets out a humorless laugh. "Calm? You think I'm calm?" he says, shaking his head. "I'm not calm, Oliver. I'm a wreck. I feel like I'm constantly lying and hiding and hurting people. What we have," he gestures at the space between us. "Is the one thing that keeps me afloat. But what are we supposed to do? Sneak around for all our lives, living hotel room to hotel room?"
I want to tell him that I understand, that I feel the same way, but the words get stuck in my throat. "Why now?" I insist. "Is there someone else?"
"There isn't someone else. That's the point," he says, his voice laced with hurt. He stands up and walks over, but he stops a couple of steps away from me.
I don't reply, I just stare at his face, feeling useless.
"Maybe this is holding me back... from falling in love, from creating something for myself. I don't know."
I understand, but I sure wish I didn't have to.
"It's hard to find an end to something that we keep beginning over and over again. Unless... we simply end it."
I clench my fist in frustration, hating that he's making so much sense. The mere thought of giving up what we have - of going back to a life where Elio is just a memory, a temptation, a regret - has me in a chokehold, it squeezes the air out of my lungs.
He steps forward and strokes my cheek, and I can't help but lean into the gentle touch.
"Please, tell me you understand."
I cover his hand with my own. "I do understand. But I don't know how to accept it."
His gaze hardens, but he doesn't pull away. "As much as I'd like for it to be a mutual decision, it doesn't need to be," he says, his voice gentle yet firm. "I'm doing this for you, too. I can tell there's something constantly on the back of your mind, haunting you."
My anger flares up again and I flinch away from him, my heart racing in my chest. My abruptness startles him, and my mind registers it and stores the image of fear glimmering in Elio's eyes to regret it later.
"No, don't do this. Don't turn it upside down as if it's me forcing your hand. You were the one chasing me relentlessly from the start," I snap. Self-loathing already engulfs me, but I can't stop the poison from spewing out. "Even when I told you I wasn't available. Even when you knew goddamn well that I was doing everything in my power to be faithful. But you didn't care, you kept going until I gave in."
Elio's lips part in surprise, and for a moment he seems at a loss for words. "You're a big boy, Oliver. You're perfectly capable of making your own decisions. It takes two to start an affair."
" ... And now you go back on your words, and have the nerve to claim you're doing it for me. Because I'm haunted," I dismiss his words completely, unable to unfurl the tangle of thoughts swirling in my head.
"I'm sorry, okay?" Elio's voice cracks with emotion as he speaks, tears of frustration welling up in his eyes. He stomps his feet on the wooden floorboards, and part of me wants to drop to my knees and beg for his forgiveness. "Is this what you want me to say? I thought I could endure it. I thought you'd only seek me out again once or twice anyway, if ever. I could hardly imagine we'd end up organizing our entire lives around it for the best part of a decade."
The desperation in his tone presses heavily on my shoulders, the room feels suffocating, and my heart sinks as I watch tears finally streaming down his face, his cheeks damp and flushed.
"Turns out a horny boy in his early twenties doesn't know what's best for him, after all," he concludes, messily wiping his cheeks with a shaking hand.
Elio's words echo in my mind as his downcast eyes avoid mine, and I suddenly know I need to leave. I can't stay there, can't let him see me so distraught and broken.
I steal a few last moments to study the tears embedded on Elio's eyelashes like dewdrops, the turned-up line of his freckled nose, and the wet tracks on his cheeks that glint in the light of the overhead lamp. Then I grab my bag before I start crying too, before I forget everything we've said so far and kiss him.
"Okay, I, um," I stutter, my voice breaking, and I rub my forehead in a nervous gesture. The harsh light of the room is giving me a killer headache. "I need to go, I have a train to catch."
It's a lie, and he's aware of it. He knows I don't need to be at the station for another two hours, but he's gracious enough not to call me out on my bluff.
I hesitate with my hand on the doorknob, knowing that storming off without a proper farewell is not the way I want this to end, but I'm not sure what I'm waiting for from him.
I hear Elio's footsteps approaching and feel a pair of arms wrap lovingly around my waist.
"Please don't contact me again," he pleads, his cheek pressed against my back.
I brush one of his hands with mine, hoping the gesture conveys everything I cannot bring myself to say, and then I leave, taking one last look at his exhausted face as I shut the door.