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Cremona is a gorgeous spectacle at all times of the day, if not especially as the sun sets. Armie finds himself, often, pondering the thought of living here forever. Abandoning his previous life to live within this province that looks as though it’s been plucked from a fairytale and painted into life. Crema, specifically, now holds such a special and dear significance to him that he’s not sure he could ever find the words to accurately express. Even his daydreams take this setting.
Though perhaps he puts significance on this location, not for what it's provided directly... Maybe he’s just come to cherish everything surrounding the physical circumstance. He looks around his hotel room and sees dimly lit rustic beauty. But from where he is, seated at the end of his bed; he looks directly in front of himself at the thin wiry frame of a young man just recently swept into the cusp of adulthood. Timothée is leaned forward in the lounge chair, intently focused on his script. And what he feels he cannot remotely begin to put words to.
He finds himself, daily, tracing the angular lines of the others bone structure with his eyes. The older man cherishes the few moments he’s able to catch the glimpses of fire and passion in the other’s eyes while Timothée is working and unaware of the attention he is receiving.
Timothée is a work of art come alive. A masterpiece of carefully carved sculpture, a color palette whom’s beauty contests Starry Night. He captures both innocence and maturity, and a spirit Armie never got to exude himself at that age.
They’ve sat in silence for several seconds, Timothée encaptured in thumbing through the script before him. He’s been so insistent on running lines daily, though his anxiety is, frankly, unsubstantiated as Armie knows so well that Timothée harbors much more talent than another person could ever wish of possessing.
“Should we do scene fifty-seven next?” Armie’s voice is soft, inquisitive, as he's slowly flipping through the white pages before him.
Timothée doesn’t look up, instead squints more intently at the jumble of black typed letters and numbers. He leans to his side, closer to the lamp on the table at his left. Armies eyes focus on the thin and graceful, dare he say elegant, fingers wrapped so gently around the stack of paper.
The older male gives an exhale of a laugh, “Page thirty-seven.”
An embarrassed smile spreads across Timothée’s lips and he glances up at Armie for a second, then his eyes are back down to flip through to the correct page. Armie watches as Timothée’s eyes scan the page, his grip on the paper shifts at thought overcomes his expression. There is beauty even these idle, entirely innocuous moments.
“I’ll start,” Armie says quietly, shuffling a bit closer to the younger male until there’s only a foot of distance between where their feet lie. Timothée nods without looking up. “World War II? Did the Allies fight near here?”
Timothée’s back stiffens, anxiety, though there's no reason for it. He’s overthinking his, Eilo’s emotions at this moment. Armie finds himself mentally noting each microscopic move of the other’s posture, the lines in his forehead, the seemingly nervous way his fingers fidget on the page as he’s trying to channel Elio.
“No. This is World War I.” A soft exhale, “You’d have to be at least eighty years old to have known any of them.” His voice is so captivating without even putting forth to do so.
“Is there anything you don’t know?” There’s an endearing air to it, but it's certainly not Oliver that brought that tone. “I never heard of the Battle of Piave.”
Timothée shifts forward, his elbows resting his knees as his eyebrows knit together in focus. “I know nothing, Oliver. Nothing... just nothing.”
Armie is far to encaptured in each small moment, in watching the subtle changes in the other’s delicate features as he speaks, in just the movement of the perfectly sculpted rose-colored lips. It takes a moment before he’s noticed they’ve locked eyes, and even then he’s overtaken with the opportunity to really look at the beautiful shades of dark green. His expression could be neutral and yet there’s still so much emotion and depth in the orbs. Armie wishes he could really see what goes on in the other’s mind.
“Oliver?” Timothée repeats, and Armie snaps back into the present with a nervous laugh. No, not Oliver. He wishes he could just be Oliver. Armie returns to his script with a rather sheepish expression.
“You know more than anyone around here.” His voice is just above a whisper.
Timothée coughs into his fist to clear his throat, “If you only knew…” Hesitation? For what? “How little I know about the things that really matter.”
Armie’s voice is low, and he doesn’t even need to look to his script for his line. He shifts a few inches forwards, his voice low. “What things that matter?”
The reply comes swiftly. “You know what things.” Timothée’s voice is soft but assured. “By now you of all people should know.” Maybe Armie is imagining the faint smile that nudged at the corners of Timothée’s lips.
“Why are you telling me all of this?”
Timothée looks up, dazzling green meeting muted blue, “Because I thought you should know.” There's an innocence to his tone, to this expression. Armie can still find himself searching for honest meaning in it.
“Because you thought I should” Armie repeats, barely audible, more caught in cherishing the real, actual sight before him.
The younger male holds their eye contact, and the older swears he sees sadness cleverly disguised within the verdant irises. “Because I want you to know” before he breaks it to glance back down at the pages. “Because there is no one else I can say this to but you.” Is Timothée… blushing?
Armie unfolds the script in his hands for a second and looks down, then looks back up and inches impossibly closer. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
The line between realities is blurring quickly.
Timothée doesn’t seem to have noticed. “Yes.”
The word barley leaves his lips by the time Armie has closed the space between them. Timothée’s lips are softer than his most secret, intrusive fantasy could have imagined, and he feels the younger’s hand gently resting chest. Not pushing him away, but… also not pulling him closer. When Armie pulls back, the first thing he takes notice is Timothée’s eyebrows are knitted together in confusion.
He seems to be searching himself for words, and the hand on Amrie’s chest withdraws itself in a quick, jerking motion. As if he’d forgotten he placed in there in the first place.
“I don’t…” Timothée looks down at the book in his hands, and that only seems to deepen his confusion. “I don’t think they were supposed to kiss there.”
Armie feels shame wash throughout his body. Of course, It wouldn't be as simple to just put forth a gesture like that and hope the younger could read the microscopic print between the lines of their own personal scripts. The blonde’s head bows and shame, and he rubs the back of his neck as he tried to gather himself.
His apology is quick, near silent, and Timothée’s expression is enough to cement that the younger truly thought nothing serious of the gesture. They both wordlessly go back to their scripts for a few seconds, though Amrie looks forward to see Timothée tracing his lips with his tongue as his fingers fiddle with the corner of his script page.
Is there something here? Is there nothing? Will there be a constant wax and wane of genuine emotion and hidden feelings? Is this at all reciprocated? Will he ever truly be ready to know that answer? What if Timothée genuinely doesn’t share those same feelings that plague Armies mind at every silent moment?
What will he do if they are mutual?
“Your line,” Timothée reminds, his index finger gently caressing his lower lip.