Chapter Text
“I might be getting married in the spring.”
The words played over and over in Elio’s mind, the joy of hearing Oliver’s voice merging, in his memory, with the dizzying sensation of his stomach falling.
The moon shone bright on the snow covering the ground below Elio’s balcony. The trees that had bloomed so beautifully in the summer were bare now, giving the grounds an eerie feeling. He watched as his fogged breath merged with the cigarette smoke floating in the air.
“Do you mind?”
He scoffed, rolling his eyes at the memory. Trust Oliver to ask the most ridiculous question after shattering Elio all over again. What did he expect to hear? Was Elio to protest? To insist Oliver not marry? That he remain frozen, as Elio seemed to be, in the memory of their love?
He’d longed to say yes. “Yes, I mind! Please don’t. Please don’t, I don’t know if I can take it.”
“That’s wonderful news.” He said, instead, proud of how steady his voice sounded.
The urge to hang up the phone had been strong; the pain spreading through his chest robbing him of breath for a moment. He’d almost done it, too, before he heard his parents join the conversation. He’d used the time they’d taken in congratulations to draw deep breaths, try for composure, careful to angle the phone away so they wouldn’t hear his distress... had just about managed it when they hung up.
“He made me feel like part of the family. Almost like a son in law.”
Almost.
He did break then. “Elio. Elio Elio Elio Elio…” Over and over he said it. It was at once, a prayer and a plea. An affirmation of all they were. He’d wanted Oliver to feel his loss as intensely as Elio felt his. Because Elio had lost so much of himself in Oliver and he’d taken those parts of Elio with him when he’d left. Elio had felt them rip from his chest as the train pulled out; sure he’d never be the same again.
And he wasn’t. There was an ache, both pressure and hollowness in his chest now, right below his sternum. He’d never known that grief could be physical until Oliver had left. It had been unbearable at the start and he’d fought it with everything inside himself. He had forced numbness, fighting the tears that always threatened. He’d slept as much as was possible but he wasn’t free from Oliver there. As much as he fought, he was never free of the ache. Oliver was all over this house. His ghost seemed to pass by each corridor just turning the corner out of Elio’s sight as he walked through. He’d avoided his spot in the back, too close to ‘Heaven’ to be a comfort. He’d avoided his piano; sure no solace could come when Oliver wouldn’t walk in and berate him to enjoy things as they were, not as they would be when influenced by outside forces. He’d even stayed in his grandfather’s room, unable to see Oliver’s absence in the bed they’d shared. And he’d be irrationally angry with Oliver because he got to leave. There was no Elio where Oliver was. It was Elio that had to suffer through every memory they had made and try to survive the empty space Oliver had inhabited.
His parents had been patient with him, as always. His mother would spend lazy afternoons reading to him, fingers stroking his hair as Elio cuddled into her, head on her lap like he had when he was sick as a small child. Mafalda had cooked his favourite meals, hoping to entice him to eat properly. Marzia came by often, never complaining when he said he didn’t feel up to going out. He’d even been allowed to beg off attending his parents various dinner parties without much complaint.
It was his father that reached him, finally. Summer was almost over; they would be returning to Milan soon. Elio had wandered aimlessly through the house listening as thunder roared overhead, before joining his father in the living room. And his words had shattered Elio’s carefully constructed numbness, the distance he had forged in himself.
“We rip out so much of ourselves to be cured of things faster than we should that we go bankrupt by the age of thirty and have less to offer each time we start with someone new. But to feel nothing so as not to feel anything - what a waste!”
Oliver was, of course, right. Elio was incredibly lucky. His father’s easy acceptance of his relationship with Oliver had allowed any feelings of shame to dissipate. His envy was the thing that made Elio realise the gift they’d been given though.
He had excused himself from dinner that evening, and slowly made his way to the room they had shared. Mafalda had already changed the bedclothes and the room lacked any sign of Oliver except in the closet, buried beneath Elio’s t-shirts, where he had stored billowy. He removed it carefully from the pile, slowly burying his face in it. It still smelled of Oliver and he reached into the pocket when he heard something crinkle. The note was still there, written in Oliver’s careful handwriting. “To Oliver, From Elio.”
He had carefully stripped of his own clothes and pulled billowy on, surrounding himself in Oliver’s scent. He made his way to bed, curling into the pillow Oliver’s head had lain on a few short weeks ago, and note still clutched in his hand, he had finally let the tears come.
In the weeks before they left for Milan, Elio allowed himself to bask in the memories of Oliver, no longer fighting the grief he felt. He lay alongside the pool reading, just as Oliver had done. He played his piano in both the original and variations of the pieces he was transcribing again. He went out dancing with Marzia and allowed his head to fall back and his body to move freely, just as he had watched Oliver do.
His life was not sad without Oliver. He felt pleasure and joy, and laughed as he had before they’d been together. It was just that now, the absence of Oliver was a physical ache below his sternum that Elio welcomed. It was a reminder that Oliver was real – that what they had had was real.
“Oliver…” Elio shivered at the emotion in Oliver’s words. “I remember everything.”
It seemed that Elio should hang up the phone then. No goodbyes. They hadn’t said them before and he wouldn’t say it now. It was obvious that while Oliver said he remembered everything, everything wasn’t enough. Not for Oliver who could so easily have fit into their family. Who so easily owned Elio, but moved forward with his own life. Four short months, that's all it had been and already, his future was mapped out.
Elio sighed, the familiar pain in his chest throbbing as he whispered, “Be happy, Oliver,” and carefully replaced the phone in its cradle.
Grow up, Oliver had written in his note and Elio thought he had grown plenty in the last few months. Somehow, he had come to accept that Oliver's absence was simply a part of him now, always there. Missing him was a constant state of being.
He watched from his balcony as a mirage of Oliver walked purposefully away from him, billowy floating behind him, long legs eating up the space quickly.
Elio let a smile touch his lips. He loved being in this house. If memories were to be all he had, he would keep them close to his heart, like watching a movie over and over so he never forgot a single detail.