Work Text:
i.
The ornate old church where they spent a quiet hour together, staring up at the impossibly high ceilings, painted with angels and saints, the sunlight filtering in and spilling over the carved stone. How Timmy stood for a long time, not saying anything, eyes moving over the paintings and the old pews, until he turned to Armie and said, “Places like this feel impossible to me. That human beings were ever capable of so much—”
And Armie crossed over from the other side of the church and stood next to him to try and see what he was seeing, feel what he was feeling. There was the altar and a set of curving marble staircases and, in Armie’s opinion, an overly morbid painting of Jesus Christ lying dead on the ground.
“It’s a reminder,” Timmy said, reading his thoughts.
Armie chuckled. “Yeah, I get it, but it’s still- And did you see over there? Literally a sculpture of dead Jesus lying there like he’s in a coffin and we’re at his funeral.”
Timmy snorted, the sound echoing in off all that stone and guilt. And Armie slipped his hand into Timmy’s, and Timmy squeezed and held on, still laughing, their own sort of prayer.
ii.
The gelateria where they sat one sunny afternoon and Armie watched Timmy’s mouth, deep pink and pursed around his spoon, the way his eyelashes fanned against his cheeks as he looked down, trying to get the last remains of pistachio gelato from his cup, and he thought for the first time that Timmy was beautiful.
Not just handsome, because that was obvious, but truly beautiful.
Armie had the urge to draw him, sculpt him, carve him into wood, even though he didn’t have any of the required skills. He had the urge to blend paints until he had the exact color of his flushed summer skin. He had the urge to make him permanent, something he could display, something he could keep with him. He wanted to feel the bones of his face under his fingertips, the veins just there under his delicate skin, the things that made him, the things he was built from.
And then Timmy looked up at him, dropping the spoon into the now empty cup, licking his lips clean, smiling and rocking back onto the back legs of his chair, slipping his sunglasses back down over his eyes. Armie watched him leaning back, the curve of his neck soaking up the warm sunlight, the freckles that trailed down his throat.
Timmy sat forward, his chair dropping back onto all four of its legs, breaking Armie from his spell. “Ready?” he asked, gathering his things from the table, pushing his chair back.
No, Armie thought as his eyes caught on Timmy’s narrow wrists, his long fingers. Everything about him suddenly felt dangerous, sharp-edged, both breakable and able to break.
Still, Armie stood, hung his backpack on his shoulder, said, “Yeah,” and followed Timmy.
iii.
The restaurant where they had dinner at least once a week, risotto and red wine and dim candlelight. Always starting out as a large group, boisterous and loud, everyone happy to be somewhere beautiful creating something beautiful, freed from the constraints of their normal lives, of normal society.
And then the group dwindled down until it was just Armie and Timmy and Luca and sometimes Michael and sometimes Esther, and they would talk more quietly, about the work, about art and books, about sex.
And then it was just Armie and Timmy and another bottle of wine was opened, appearing out of seemingly nowhere. Timmy’s mouth stained purplish red like a bruise, the candle’s flame flickering against his skin. “I’m…very drunk,” he said, pouring another glass for Armie who was doubled over laughing at nothing, just happy, just spilling over.
“Ditto,” Armie said, covering his face with a napkin. When he pulled it down, Timmy was watching him, that mouth twisted into something sly, something terribly tempting, something else entirely.
They finished the bottle against their better judgment and then Timmy said, “Let’s go.”
Armie stood up on wobbly legs, asking “Where?” as Timmy was already walking away.
It turned out they were going nowhere, too drunk to remember the way back home. They walked their bikes down streets that looked familiar, leaning against each other, laughing and filling the small Italian town with their loud English.
They turned down a street they’d been down twice already and Timmy stopped, dropping his bike to the ground and leaning against the brick wall of a building, everything here old, full of history, how many people had leaned against this brick.
“I think this building was actually built in, like, the 60’s,” Timmy said, because Armie had apparently said all that out loud. And then Armie was laughing again, falling into Timmy, hands against the wall on either side of him.
Timmy looked at him, so close, and said, “Kiss me,” startling Armie with the simple directive of his want.
Armie shook his head, pushing back off the wall, stumbling a little over his own feet.“Bad idea,” he said.
Timmy shrugged, hands in his pockets. “Sure,” he said. “Bad idea.”
Armie looked at him in that dark empty street in Italy, so far from home, his family, and felt like he was in a different universe. “Where are we?” he asked, stepping close to Timmy again.
“No clue,” Timmy said and darted his tongue out to wet his lips right before Armie kissed him.
It was all teeth and too much tongue, a promising heat, but not nearly what either of them wanted it to be.
They stopped. They looked at each other. They started to laugh again.
iv.
A living room, his place or Timmy’s place, either one, lit only by small scattered lamps as the sun set slowly and the light turned everything into dark blue shadows. Timmy stretched across the couch, holding a book above his head, poetry, philosophy, Greek mythology, things Luca had recommended, things Elio would have read.
And, Armie: on the floor, back against the couch, his head by Timmy’s knees, eyes closed, a glass of wine in his hand.
Every once in a while, Timmy would read a line out loud to him, his mouth forming the words with such tenderness, each syllable coming out well loved. Armie would hum in response, sometimes saying, “Read it again,” just to hear Timmy’s tongue on a certain bit of consonance, and Timmy would read it again and drop a hand down so that it brushed Armie’s shoulder, as if by accident, as if anything between them could feel less than fated, destined. Armie turned his head so that his mouth would brush Timmy’s fingertips, knuckles: accidental, but they both lingered.
Eventually, Timmy would hand the book down to Armie, a dozen pages dog-eared, and he would say then, “Now, you,” and Armie would open to a random page, and read to Timmy about Adonis being killed by the wild boar or about Heracles choosing between a life of vice or a life of virtue.
Timmy combed his fingers through Armie’s hair, making him stumble on words, asking him, “Vice or virtue? Which would you choose?” His voice seemed to hum down to his fingertips so Armie could feel it against his scalp.
“Earthly pleasures?” Timmy said, tugging Armie’s head to the side. “Or serving mankind?” pushing his head to the other side.
Armie swallowed, bringing his hand up to grab Timmy’s. He looked over his shoulder at Timmy, saw his eyes glimmering darkly, moonlit and shadowed. He pressed his fingertips into Timmy’s wrist, said, “Serving mankind,” sounding like a lie. “You?” he asked and dropped Timmy’s hand, turning back to the book.
But he could still hear the grin when Timmy said, “Pleasures,” and knocked a knee gently against the back of Armie’s head.
“To be young,” Armie said, wistful. He put the book down and pushed himself up from the floor, settling down on the edge of the couch. Timmy turned over onto his back and looked up at Armie, his lips parted as Armie slowly, agonizingly, lowered his weight onto Timmy’s body, hip bones locking together like jigsaw puzzle pieces.
Armie was propped up on his forearms, his mouth ghosting against Timmy’s, but not closing the space. “A life of this?” he asked, shifting his body a little, their chests pressing together.
“Yes,” Timmy said. He lifted his head, dipping his tongue into the slight dimple of Armie’s chin. “A lifetime of just this.”