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credits: @timmybatch on twitter

At night, Elia dreams of Filippo.

It’s weird, because he’s been obsessed with girls before, absolutely, so it’s not like infatuation is a new thing for him. But never has Elia dreamt with such vivid clarity and an undertone of such desperate want, longing, for someone before.

He dreams of lean abs painted like a statue of ancient Rome. He dreams of corded muscles tensing and relaxing as long fingers flick the end of a cigarette. He dreams of bleached curls and dark eye lashes; of freckles like constellations on smooth tan skin. 

He dreams of gasps and moans and whispers of “please” and “more” and “god don’t stop.” He dreams of soothing touches and bruise-educing grips; of laughter and the morning sunlight gleaming off of espresso eyes still hazy from a night of pleasure and sleep.

But Elia doesn’t dream reality. 

He doesn’t dream the careful way in which his eyes never fail to look out for Filippo across a rooftop party composed of mutual friends. He doesn’t dream of their eyes meeting and holding for an eternity, only for Filippo’s to eventually trail away when the disappointment that Elia can’t quite bring himself to make the first move after their night together weeks ago sets in. He doesn’t dream of Marti’s considering looks, or Gio’s pursed lips, or the way Luca seems oblivious to it all. 

(It’s not the boy thing, guys, it’s not that. I’m not ashamed, it’s just complicated.)

He doesn’t dream of his father slamming a Bible down at the dinner table in front of him, repeating over and over that the Santini family are good Catholics, great ones, and that good Catholic boys marry good Catholic girls and that there are no exceptions. 

It wouldn’t be hard to be a good Catholic boy. Elia likes girls without trying; he likes curves and giggles and the smell of perfume. 

But more than he likes girls right now, Elia likes Filippo.

Elia wants Filippo.

And Elia is nothing if not selfish.

So he looks up at the dark ceiling, watching the way shadows flicker as cars pass by. Then he glances towards his bedside table.

02:43

To Filippo Sava: can I come over?

robbe ijzermans and sander driesen in 2021

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Eleonora sighed at the mess on the counter, the espresso machine that hadn’t been cleaned in days. When Eleonora had children of her own, they would certainly learn how to clean up after themselves. Not that Filippo was her child, but it certainly felt that way sometimes.

Setting about cleaning up, Eleonora dumped the dishes in the sink, wiping down the countertop and grimacing at the coffee stains on the tile.

“Oh.” A surprised voice behind her made Eleonora pause, glancing at the doorway to find an awkward-looking Elia wearing only a pair of boxer shorts and a shirt Eleonora knew was one of Filippo’s. “I didn’t think you’d be up.”

Shoving away her surprise at finding Elia in her apartment at nine in the morning, Eleonora shook her head.

“It’s after nine,” she said instead, crossing her arms and leaning back against the counter as Elia lingered in the doorway.

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