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Sunday, 3:04 pm
Three loud bangs echo in the room. It wakes and startles Timmy. His head pounds, but he shows no interest in checking out the origin of the sounds. He merely wishes for it to stop.
The night before is a total blur.
It’s a torn up film reel, sparing only bits and pieces. Timmy vaguely remembers stumbling through the streets back to his hotel room. Perhaps there was someone, perhaps there wasn’t and he’s imagining. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s done that. But then he thinks again and realizes, no, there definitely was someone.
The next blurry piece of memory is of being pounded into the mattress by that someone — the memory only really there aided by a sharp ache downstairs.
For a brief moment, a silence reigns. And Timmy is fooled into thinking the banging sound has stopped. But he is mistaken. It only becomes even more incessant, now mixed in with loud yelling from the other end. The noises together create a rumble that serves to exacerbate Timmy’s headache.
Yet, he does not move.
Then suddenly, he feels movement. Something -- someone is wiggling next to him. Timmy tilts his head just enough to ascertain the identity of that person.
Oh.
It’s the ‘someone’. And that someone isn’t Armie, though strangely enough, Timmy feels like he hears him.
The stranger is up on his elbows, frowning and cursing. He’s got a headache similar to that of Timmy; they’ve taken refuge in the same white substance the night before. He glances over at Timmy and says, “Shouldn’t you get that?” in a broken accent.
Timmy shrugs.
Then the banging continues. Not only does it continue, it compounds, and begins to sound like gunfire. Timmy wants to mute it and go back to sleep, but it shows no signs of ending. Finally, it’s the stranger who gets up and walks up to the door to answer it.
But before the stranger ever reaches the door, there is another thud; this time, sounding more like an explosion.
Timmy jerks, but immediately decides the severity of his headache trumps his curiosity or care, and sinks back into a jumble of white sheets.
But by now, he knows the low rumble of Armie’s voice he heard wasn’t something he conjured up in his head like it usually is.
Monday 8:47 a.m.
Timmy can’t remember the last time he didn’t wake with a piercing headache and blurred bits of memories colliding into each other in his head.
This morning, it’s a ray of sun that jolts him awake. It’s blinding and warm, reminds him of a certain someone that adds another sharp and concentrated ache to Timmy’s exhausted being.
The bits in his damaged film reel remind him of the explosive exchange between him and Armie. But he can’t seem to swallow those events as real. It seems unreal, especially now, still blinded by the sun and entirely confused on where he stands, or lies, in space and time.
He lets the confusion linger a little while, mostly because he has no other choice. Then more bits begin to trickle in, each bit every bit as painful and headache-inducing.
Armie.
Timmy vaguely remembers clinging onto Armie as Armie led him down a carpeted hall, down the elevator and into a car driven by somebody else, where he fell into deep slumber, still fighting with the residues of whatever he had indulged in during days before. There, Timmy had relinquished all control, and given even the power of his limbs to Armie.
In the back of his head, Timmy knew they were going somewhere, that now, they have come, reached their destination. He still had no idea where, or how they got here. But as his eyes adjusted to the light flushing in through the window and the scenery out it made itself apparent, it became clear to him.
Timmy really didn’t expect to wake up here.
In Crema.
Monday, 9:17 a.m.
Wet grass hugs the bottom of Timmy’s feet. It’s a familiar sensation, one that’s forevermore engraved into his soul. He feels every tickle to the fullest, savoring every step in all its glory, all the while desperate to close the gap between himself and his god.
Armie watches him, half submerged in a familiar fountain-turned-swimming-hole. He watches, quietly, without wearing his feelings on his face. Only in the flickering eyelids can one sense the waves churn in his inner workings.
Still squinting, Timmy climbs onto the meticulously crafted stone on which his lover leans. Moments later, he tests out the water with his big toe. Immediately, he’s taken aback by its chilling effect. Yet, he plunges himself in, without hesitation this time. He submerges himself fully, then immediately resurfaces to take a loud gasp-like breath.
Armie is still watching. He holds, his tongue and feelings both. Right now, he needs Timmy to bathe in the sun and dry in the wind, rid himself of the hurt that’s sent him over the edge in recent past.
And he needs Timmy to love. Love him, but more, love himself.
That’s a selfish desire, Armie knows. But he won’t chastise himself for it - it’s already past the point of no return. He’ll let that feeling brew and brew inside, until the acid pops the lid and makes it explode everywhere. Perhaps he had already exploded, he’s not sure.
At the very least, he was closer to it than anyone could have anticipated.
Timmy swims over from a few feet away, floating in much faster and stronger than perhaps he had intended. With one big push, his face ends up inches from Armie’s. Timmy doesn’t say, because Armie doesn’t say. Instead, he places his wet lips onto Armie’s, open mouthed and breathy.
A dream is re-lived in that moment.
That summer and its residues. Timmy had been waiting for its magic to fade for years. Yet, here they were, soaked back in it, and in doing so he was overcome once more by the illusion that this bubble would stay intact forever.
Oh, how he wished it were true.
Armie reaches his arms out, wraps them around Timmy’s waist. In a natural progression, Timmy lifts his own to link himself to Armie by his neck. The two puzzle pieces come together finally, both their edges torn and scarred from trying to fit themselves into other pieces that didn’t quite fit.
Their lips meet again, breaths and heartbeats exchanged. Late morning’s sunlight is the witness to their union, along with the trees that blow in a sweet and earthy scent to the tips of their noses.
The tips of their tongues brush each other a while before intertwining completely for a bout of tumbling around. Their taste buds tingle, stimulating both the sweet and salty ends.
Timmy feels like crying.
Armie notices the changes in his rhythm, so he holds tighter and licks harder. But eventually, a sob makes its way through the exchange of breaths and saliva, making a ringing sound trapped somewhere in between one cave and another.
When their lips part, Armie whispers quietly into Timmy’s mouth. And his tone tumbled into Timmy’s throat, all the way down the narrow passages and into his origin.
“I’d die for you.”
Timmy looks up through his eyelashes collecting droplets of the cold water. From this view, Armie is blurry, but he knows. This is his Armie. His forever Armie.
Timmy wants to say, but he swallows. Instead, he does nothing, only allows himself to be led by Armie once more, into a deeper trust of the lips.
I’ve already died for you. Twice and a hundred times. I let you kill me over and over.
Even in this moment, Timmy can feel himself slowly dying.
Monday, 8:47 p.m.
It’s a union of pink and white when Timmy’s fingertips meet the heavy keys of the piano. He teases at first, allowing only a single ring of a note to spread through the air thickened by the burning of mesquite in the fireplace. Armie sits, slanted and leaning on an armchair across the room, watching again, with intent, ernest, focused.
He will not let go of another second of their time.
Using Armie’s pace of breath as the metronome, Timmy begins to bend his fingers into arches, pressing upon the cold hard surface. His head bobbles, shoulders repeating a cycle of ascent and descent as his fingers freely travel.
Rachmaninoff.
A serenade. From a different time, a different man to a different lover, but no less true in this moment.
Timmy gives all. In this moment, in their moment, he gives and gives.
He gives until he can’t give no more.
“When did you learn to play that?” Armie asks, as silence replaces melody.
Timmy just shrugs. He’s panting, still coming down from the high induced by his performance. Armie quietly approaches him from behind, his steps slow and hesitant. But he eventually reaches Timmy, and the hand that reaches forward and lands on Timmy’s right shoulder is not hesitant in the least.
Warmth radiates from the broad palm that overtakes Timmy’s shoulder, pierces through the thin layer of clothing and reaches straight in, all the way down to Timmy’s core.
Timmy gets up, slowly turns around. The piano chair lingers between the two men’s knees, yet it serves as no barrier when Timmy swings both his arms up and wraps them around Armie’s neck.
He needn’t say anything in that moment for Armie to feel exactly the same thing that he feels.
It’s Armie who swings in first. He lowers his head, gently lands his lips on Timmy’s. But it’s Timmy who deepens. A mere touch is far from enough for his heart’s desires.
“Take me to bed,” Timmy says, breathing in a short but heavy sigh into Armie’s mouth.
Armie does. He grabs Timmy by the hand. Fingers are instantly intertwined, and Armie tugs. In the next second, both men are racing up the familiar set of stairs, their hastened movement accentuated by the creaking noise of the floorboard. A small giggle settles between both their lips.
They throw themselves onto the sheets, still jumbled from the night before, with Timmy’s trousers draped over the railing and Armie’s swim shorts drying in another corner. Limbs are tangled, breaths exchanged. Words and hands wander.
On his back, Timmy looks up at his god through his eyelashes. He looks blurry, partially because of night, partially because of the tears pooling up in his eyes. Noticing Timmy’s somber, Armie moves quickly, tugging off Timmy’s jeans and briefs in one fisty pull.
Their movements are in haste, as though they’re making up for lost time.
As though they’re being chased.
Their act now transcends the meager feeling of want. Timmy needs this. He needs Armie and he needs to be connected with him, to feel him there and everywhere, to co-exist in this moment as though there weren’t any other. He realizes, too, that Armie needs this, and him, in the same way.
They need each other. To breathe, to feel alive, appreciated, loved, needed, admired, nurtured, significant.
To be.
“I love you,” Armie manages to swallow his sob enough to say. “I love you so much. I love you. I love you.”
“Do you love me?”
“I do,” Timmy says between moans. “Love you. I love you.”
The truth is, Timmy feels like he’d never known love before Armie Hammer showed up in his life.
Tuesday, 6:28 p.m.
Armie nearly jumps off his bike as they glide toward a familiar statue in the piazza. He grabs onto its seat as his feet touch the ground and rolls it toward the railings that guard the statue and leans the metal frame there. Timmy’s a few feet behind, choosing to hit the brakes before dismounting.
“Here. Hold this,” Armie says, breathing hard as he hands Timmy the plastic bag that holds his and Timmy’s wet swim shorts.
They spent the afternoon swimming in Monet’s Berm and riding around the country.
It truly felt like they’d returned to simpler times, except this time, there are no cameras, no dozens of crew members crowding around on the other side. But even when there were, Armie and Timmy existed in their own dimension, just the two of them. In that sense, it was not that different.
“Last time we were here, you said you knew little about the things that matter,” Armie says, perhaps playfully. He lights a cigarette as he leans on the railing of the statue.
Timmy turns his head, blowing his own cigarette smoke in Armie’s direction. He smiles and turns his gaze down to the ground.
“That wasn’t me who said it,” he says, blowing another round of smokes, into the air below this time. “It was Elio.”
“You are Elio.”
“Only as much as you’re Oliver.”
“And how much is that?”
“I don’t know. You tell me.”
Armie’s smile is mischievous.
“Maybe I’m Elio.”
Timmy merely looks up, his expression, curious. In his heart, he disagrees. Armie is Oliver. More so than he himself is Elio. But he entertains, allowing Armie to continue on with his speech.
“I know so little,” Armie says, choking a little bit on his own giggles. And Timmy indulges.
“You know more than anyone I know.”
“Maybe. But I know so little about the things that matter.”
“And we’re back to that again.” Timmy rolls his eyes a little bit, only, playfully.
“Well, I’m saying maybe I’m Elio.”
“I thought you just said I was?” Timmy gazes quizzically.
“I did, but maybe I’m wrong. Maybe you’re Oliver.”
“Now you’re just fucking with me.”
When Timmy scoffs and turns around, Armie throws his cigarette onto the ground hastily and reaches out his hand. He grabs Timmy by the shoulder and pulls.
“Hey, come here.”
Armie half expects to find Timmy grimacing when he turns around. But Timmy’s face shows no expression. Or at least it’s trying to show no expression. Before Armie can observe further, Timmy blows more smoke straight onto his face as he casually asks, “Pizza?”
“Yes.”
“Race you there.”
Timmy bolts and Armie chases.
Tuesday, 11:47 p.m.
A breeze quietly enters the room through the long and wide windows that are left open. It eventually reaches Timmy and Armie’s bare skin and raises small goosebumps. It’s by no means a cold night, but the chill pushes them to seek out more of each other’s warmth.
Curled up and limbs intertwined, Timmy stares out the window. His body glistens from carelessly wiped up residues of lovemaking. Crumpled items of clothing are scattered on the floor.
Their gazes point toward the same tree out the window, moonlit, dancing quietly and slowly to the moving breeze.
“It’s so beautiful,” Armie says. Timmy nods in agreement. “ You’re so beautiful,” Armie quickly adds.
“Don’t you know you’re the beautiful one?” Timmy says, giggling into Armie’s shoulder. “I’m just a gawky, awkward kid from New York.”
“My favorite person from New York.” Armie barely finishes his sentence when he rushes to correct himself. “Actually, let me scratch that. My favorite person in the world .”
“Wow. Your mom would disapprove so hard.” Timmy can think of another person who would disapprove, but he holds his tongue.
“Not the first, nor the last thing she would disapprove of.”
The air is full of giggles and still harsh breaths. It’s the manifestation of what could be, perhaps even what was before.
“You know, we could just stay here forever,” Armie says nonchalantly but with a sprinkle of hope, tickling Timmy’s shoulder with his fingers as he does. “Like this.”
“We could,” Timmy replies in a similarly nonchalant but hopeful tone.
He wants nothing more than to believe. In this. In them. In what it, or they, could be.
But he doesn’t believe those words of hope, not when Armie says them, nor when he himself does.
Nothing gold can stay.
Wednesday, 4:43 a.m.
Armie is lost in slumber, despite Timmy’s bustling around. Dawn is approaching, but not here yet, and a purple tint glows in the room.
Timmy takes care not to make more noise than he has to as he zips his suitcase shut. He quietly moves the suitcase to the outside of the bedroom door, but returns in a moment, sitting himself beside a sprawled Armie.
He only stares for a moment. He can’t do much else, because his whole body trembles and tears have already blurred his vision. He can feel his heart in his throat, fingertips and the tip of his tongue. He wants to swallow it, but he can’t.
Timmy imagines this is what it feels like at death, when the highlights of one’s life flashes through and overcomes them with a rush of feelings.
There was a time his words were gospel, only true and beautiful and never intended for hurt. There was inexplicable beauty in every syllable, and a rhythm to it that synchronized with Timmy’s heartbeats. It was music to his ears, the veins of which intertwined with the deepest parts of his soul.
Love was magnificent, in ways that Timmy had not previously realized.
But the walls came crashing down. Timmy had resisted, fortifying every crack with bandaids - hundreds, thousands of them. But they simply could not endure. It was a natural conclusion.
So here they are again. No, here he is, leaving the heat of the summer and the brightest of memories behind here in Crema, a treasure box for the fondest of pieces that preserve their beauty best when left here to age beautifully, timelessly.
Timmy sets his heart down here. Perhaps one day, he’ll be back to retrieve it. But for now, he feels as though he’s done using it for this lifetime. Consequences of this love had worn it out beyond repair.
“I love you,” he whispers quietly into Armie’s ear. Armie twitches a bit, the corner of his lips rising to form a smile, though still deep in slumber.
Goodbye, Crema. Timmy mutters. Goodbye, Armie.
It’s only fair that what started here ends here. There’s been far too much in between but Timmy will always carry with him the undeniable fact that their love started here in the most unimaginably beautiful way possible and ended in the same place in that same way.
Now, turn the page, he tells himself.