Archive of Our Own

Oliver bursts into the room.

He’s been wandering around for several hours now, searching for some productive use of his time, hasn’t been able to find any. The heat is oppressive and the day is brutally hot - too hot to think, too hot to get fully dressed. He’s been sweating all day and badly needs a way to cool off.

Oliver knows that there is a group of young people swimming down by the river, goes upstairs to change into his blue swim shorts. Thinks maybe he could convince Elio to come with him, and they could be together under the guise of hanging out with the whole group. He also knows Elio is shut up in his room, judging by the fact that the door between their bedrooms is firmly closed. After changing, Oliver can’t help but turn towards it, that restless energy he’s been experiencing all day just waiting to burst out of him. He feels that energy coursing through his body, lets it propel him through the door.

Perhaps he’d wanted to surprise him. To catch him unawares. To throw him off his game. There seemed to be a stalemate between the two of them, one that neither of them had broken yet. Maybe Oliver had wanted to be the one to break it.

So he doesn’t knock, just turns the handle and pushes the door open, maybe a little bit harder than he’d meant to. He winces slightly as the door opens loudly, then bangs closed from the force he’d given it, tries to cover it up by striding overconfidently into the room, shoulders squared and head held high. Sees Elio lying on the small spare bed, half-naked, feels suddenly faint at the sight. He’d often laid awake at night, thinking of Elio in this exact bed, just a few steps and a closed door away from his own (temporary) bed, but the reality of it is far too much. He realizes too late that he hasn’t prepared for this at all, loses track of his movements, his steps, his words. Has to lean against the iron-wrought footboard to keep his balance, tries to make it look casual. Can only hope he succeeds.

Elio is lying only in his boxers, the thin material not leaving much to the imagination. His long, thin legs are stretched out in front of him, his pale stomach and chest exposed. Oliver wants to drink in the sight of him, wants to feel every inch of skin, but tries to control himself.

Meanwhile, Elio is fumbling for the book that had been lying, abandoned, next to him on the bed, trying to find the page where he left off. What was he doing when Oliver had burst into the room? Had he really seen Elio’s hand tucked inside his waistband? Surely he must be imagining things.

“Hey,” he says, and it sounds accusatory, even to his own ears, but he feels he needs to say it loudly, has to enunciate or else he’ll lose his ability to speak altogether. “What are you doing?”

Elio’s voice is soft, his lips pouty. “Reading,” he says, looking down at his book.

Oliver bends his elbows, resting one forearm then the other against the intricate ironwork at the foot of the small bed. He has to steady himself, has to feel the cool, heavy metal against his skin, has to keep himself rooted there lest he reach out to Elio, lest he be tempted to touch.

“How come you’re not with everyone else down by the river?” He knows his words, once again, sound harsh, maybe judgmental even, and Oliver panics slightly, tries to think of a way to steer this conversation in the right direction, realizes he doesn’t have any idea what that direction is.

What Oliver’s just brought up is a recurring theme with Elio, with his parents and the other adults in his life, who are always telling him that he doesn’t spend enough time with people his own age. With people any age, really. He’s often hiding in his room, reading or sleeping or transcribing at his desk, but rarely spends any time with the others. Oliver’s often heard his parents encouraging him to go out with friends, to join in their revelry and carefree activities. He curses himself inwardly at having repeated their same criticism, at sounding like just another adult in his life chiding him for not acting his age, not enjoying his youth while he can.

Elio looks up, his face looking slightly pained, eyes narrow and lips hard. So Oliver was right, he shouldn’t have said anything at all. Elio obviously doesn’t like being treated like a child by him, and now resents him for it.

“I think I have an allergy.” His voice is still soft, subdued. “It’s…” he starts, but trails off, vaguely gesturing to his face, indicating the areas affected by this supposed allergy. Then drops his hand, looks back down at his book. He seems dejected, Oliver thinks, or maybe he’s ashamed, cursing himself again for having made him feel that way.

Once again he has that same strong desire to reach out to Elio. More than anything, he wants to show him that they are on the same level, that they are in this together. That Elio doesn’t have to feel bad. But Oliver doesn’t trust his body right now. His limbs feel numb, his head a dizzy mess. So he pushes through the current limitations of his own body, and reaches out instead with his words.

“Maybe we have the same one.” He tries to say it casually, but his words betray him, even if his body has managed to stay in one place, in one piece. Did it sound like he was flirting? He’d only wanted to comfort Elio, to let him know he wasn’t alone, but maybe he’d gone too far. He’s already pushed his luck by bursting into the room without waiting for permission, had maybe-probably interrupted something, had obviously startled him. He waits for Elio’s reaction, feels himself practically holding his breath in anticipation of anger, maybe rejection even.

But Elio doesn’t really react, other than giving a soft hum of acknowledgment. Oliver takes comfort in the fact that he hasn’t exactly offended him, that Elio hasn’t sent him away. But that restless energy bubbles up again and suddenly he wants a reaction out of Elio, wants to push him further. Figures he’d already broken through the barrier — smashed it, even — of being polite and inoffensive when he’d pushed the door open without warning. It feels like they’ve been tip-toeing around each other for a while now, and Oliver wants action. Wants to break the silence. Fuck being polite.

“Why don’t you and I go swimming?”

Fuck hiding in a large group of people when all he wants to do is be next to Elio, to be by his side. To hide with him, and him only.

“Right now?” Elio’s voice breaks slightly, and Oliver thinks maybe he’s nervous. Or maybe it’s nothing and he’s reading too much into it. His head is too full to worry too much. So he doesn’t dwell on it for long, instead focuses on the feeling of something being set in motion, of wheels spinning that can’t be stopped. He’s already come this far, and doesn’t want to turn back now. So he pushes through once again.

“Yeah. Right now,” he says, looking him dead in the eye. Or, he would be, if Elio was looking back.

He moves closer to Elio’s stretched-out form, pushing off the wrought iron railing and walking around the side of the bed. Elio is laid out beneath him, but quickly raises up to a sitting position when Oliver approaches. Oliver wishes he could stop and take the time to admire him, to run his eyes over every part of him, maybe his hands, too. But right now his goal is action, to get Elio to come with him, and even if he doesn’t know where it will lead them, he feels compelled to carry on.

“Come on, let’s go,” he says, reaching out his arm. Elio’s hand jumps up to meet his and Oliver feels them snap together like two magnets, perfectly aligned. With all the dancing around each other they’ve been doing lately, any touch feels magnified, profound. He grips strongly at Elio’s forearm as he feels delicate fingers wrap around his own and he almost wants to let himself lean into that touch, to let himself be pulled down into it. Instead, he tries to hoist Elio up, manages to lift him a few inches off the bed before he feels resistance, doesn’t completely let up. Only relaxes a bit when Elio speaks again.

“Do we have to go right now?”

Elio is looking up at him then. Oliver looks into Elio’s eyes, those wide, green pools, feels like he could get lost in them. Has often wanted to, but never wanted to be caught out staring, didn’t want to give himself away that easily. Because it was easy with Elio, easy to talk with him, to laugh with him, to sit with him in silence. Oliver had felt unprepared for how easy it had all been, and so he’d tried to make it difficult. Had looked away when he really wanted to keep on looking. Had run away when all he’d wanted to do was stay.

And that’s what he sees in Elio’s eyes right now. A plea for him to not run this time.

Stay.

Is that really what Elio is asking him to do? Or is he hearing it in his own head, projecting his own desires onto him?

As a test, Oliver moves closer and sits down. Their hands stay connected and fall loosely into the space between them as Oliver lowers himself and then turns slightly. Now they really are on the same level, looking directly into each other’s eyes. Once Oliver is fairly sure he hasn’t spooked him, he lets his gaze wander all over Elio’s face. That lovely face he’d always admired, had often missed when it wasn’t near. He doesn’t really want to be away from him anymore, wonders if Elio feels the same.

“We could do something else,” he offers, watches the blush darken Elio’s cheeks. Smiles. Lets his face relax as Elio’s eyes flick down, then back up again.

“Like what?” he asks, fingers still wrapped around Oliver’s arm.

“Anything,” Oliver tells him, and means it. Elio feels so soft in his grip, so perfect, and he craves more, but doesn't want to scare him. He really could do anything with him, would enjoy himself no matter what they did together. But he knows what he really wants, what he’s tried to push to the back of his mind for ages, it seems, but hasn’t yet fully managed to.

He stretches out his first two fingers, lets them run back and forth along Elio’s skin, still encircling his forearm with the other digits. He can wrap almost all the way around him, is suddenly fascinated with the sight of Elio within his grip, already addicted to the feel of him. His fingers are tentative, limited in their exploration, but can’t help but discover what else is within the boundary of his grip, can’t help but reach slightly outside of it.

Elio’s face is tipped down, watching Oliver’s fingers as they move across his skin. He’s biting his lip, isn’t bringing his eyes back up to meet Oliver’s gaze. Maybe he’s nervous, and so Oliver stops his explorations and tries to reassure him.

“We could still go,” Oliver offers, wanting to make sure Elio knows that it’s still an option for them. That he could (try to) be happy watching Elio swim amongst the others down by the river. “Your friends would be glad to—”

Elio’s fingers wrap more tightly around his forearm, and Oliver looks down, too. His skin is indented where Elio is pressing into him, and his stomach flips at the word the gesture implies.

Stay.

The truth is, there isn’t much he wouldn’t do for Elio. So he stays.

Oliver moves a bit closer, still being cautious, still testing the limits of Elio’s unspoken request. He holds on, continuing to caress Elio’s arm, exploring. Elio’s skin is so soft beneath his fingers, and warm, too. He gets lost in the feeling, sliding his hand back and forth until he circles his grip around to the other side of his arm, winding around him like a snake, letting his fingers caress the skin there by touch alone, the delicate hairs bending like blades of grass each time he makes another pass. Then comes back around to the smooth side again, repeats the same movements. For a while, Elio looks down, watching Oliver’s hand as it shifts and glides, the only sounds their breaths and the far-off noises of the world outside.

Suddenly, he looks up, eyes wide. It seems like he wants to say something, wants to ask a question, but doesn’t voice it, only keeps looking. Elio’s face has always been an open book, one that easily shows his emotions, one which Oliver is still learning how to read. For now, Oliver stays quiet, too, lets Elio look, that piercing green gaze flicking between each of his eyes. He feels fingers tighten slightly on his arm, then relax only a moment later.

“How’s your allergy?” Oliver asks, and he wonders again if it sounds like he’s flirting.

“Better now.” Elio sounds equal parts anxious and hopeful. Then Elio’s hand slides a few inches up his arm, causing him to shiver in response.

He doesn’t want to push Elio into anything, but he’s not going to deny how much he wants this. How much he’s wanted him. He’d often thought about having him this close, thought about how to make it happen, if only he could reach out and touch.

Now that he is touching him, he doesn’t ever want to let go.

Elio exhales a bit more audibly, lifts his shoulders and then lets them relax. Rearranges so that he’s sitting cross-legged, so their lower limbs are practically touching, and Oliver is almost immediately hit with the smell of him, ripe and pungent. Is this how he always smells up close? Or is this smell related to the maybe-something he was doing when Oliver burst into the room?

Either way, the scent overwhelms him and he’s dizzy all over again. It’s a strong, heady aroma and Oliver is momentarily worried that he really will lose control. This is why he’s avoided him for so long, spared himself the torture of being too near, even though he wanted nothing more. And he now knows his instincts were right - there was no way he was ever going to be able to keep his wits about him around Elio. The potent smell of him combined with the feel of his supple flesh is almost enough to overpower him, to bring him to his knees. Then the thought of kneeling for Elio is almost enough to truly undo him, and he has to stop himself from imagining all the ways he’d savor him, all the ways in which he’d worship.

Oliver forces himself to pause, to soften his muscles, his gaze, to breathe. He focuses on Elio’s face, registers the slight twist of his lips and the undulation of his throat as he swallows.

“Do you want to go with the others?” Elio asks tentatively.

“No,” Oliver answers, voice rumbling quietly into the space between them. Sometimes the truth is simple, plain.

“So you’ll stay here?”

There’s that word — stay — straight from Elio’s mouth, the word he’s been wanting to hear all along. Now that Oliver’s heard it, he doesn’t ever want to leave.

“Yes,” Oliver tells him, and scoots even closer, still holding onto his arm.

Elio’s face is exquisite in all its up-close detail, and Oliver relishes being able to focus so precisely on the objects of his long-held desire: those almond shaped-eyes swirling with seemingly every color, every emotion; the slender nose that flares at the base; those dusky-pink lips, so luscious and full; the little freckles everywhere. He adores every part of Elio, and is thrilled at the opportunity to soak it all in at such a close distance.

It’s the first time they’ve truly gazed at each other, without the pretense of judgment or the excuse of conversation, without an extraneous or superfluous reason to do so. Oliver simply stares, looks into Elio’s eyes as he stares back, lets himself be seen; watches as Elio’s eyes flick down to his lips and then back up to meet his gaze again.

He feels Elio’s fingers creeping up his arm again, registers when a few slip into the crease of his elbow and start to caress the soft, delicate skin there. They look into each other’s eyes and Oliver can’t tell how many fingers he’s using because he doesn’t want to look away -- or perhaps because he can’t. Elio is holding his gaze, is letting Oliver see; his eyes look soft and vulnerable, yet strong and determined, focused yet swirling with a million questions, a million things to say. Oliver wonders, not for the first time, what he’s thinking, but decides that just looking is enough. He allows himself that much, to look and be looked at, and to not look away.

Stay.

The command is both internal and external now, echoing inside his own head and flowing between them, connected as they are.

“Are you happy right now?” Oliver asks him, voice quiet. He’s greedy for any confirmation that Elio wants him here, that his instincts are right. That Elio desires the same thing he does.

He watches as Elio nods, still staring straight into his eyes.

This time Oliver lets himself fall into him, leaning forward and collapsing with his head on Elio’s shoulder. The smell of him is even stronger in this position, his skin so soft. Oliver can’t help but nuzzle into him, run his cheek and chin along his collarbone towards his neck. He feels Elio shiver at the touch, hears the rasp of his own day-old stubble in the otherwise quiet of the room, hears Elio’s puff of breath in response to the slightly rough touch.

Feels that breath puff against him, feels it warm him like the rays of the afternoon sun. Each exhale is a new burst of warmth, of light, like Elio is his sun. Slides his face up towards that warmth, cheek brushing against Elio’s, until their foreheads touch. Until Elio becomes his whole world.

He can feel Elio’s breath puffing directly against his lips now and his head spins. Has to grip onto Elio’s arm more tightly to stay grounded, to hold on, feels him do the same.

Now that he’s this close to Elio, he feels drawn into him, the pull of gravity strong at this distance, Elio a celestial body, a bright spot in an otherwise-dark sky, the governor of Oliver’s orbit. Just as Elio dictates his trajectory, he also makes his days and nights, warms his oceans, gives him life. Oliver realizes now that he’s been orbiting him for some time now, that resisting the force of his energy was always futile, that it’s so much easier to just give in, to let himself be taken by it. He finds that it’s relaxing to surrender, a relief to be locked in.

Oliver brings his hand up to Elio’s face, cupping his cheek as Elio’s hand falls away from his arm in the process. He doesn’t try to pull away from Elio’s influence anymore, but rather leans into it; presses their foreheads together and feels their lips come ever closer. Feels Elio’s breath directly against his own mouth and feels thoroughly warmed by each and every exhale. He breathes out against him, and with that breath lets go the will to resist him any longer.

Elio’s hand flies up to grip at Oliver’s wrist, keeping the hand on his face. Oliver tightens the grip on his cheek, feeling the skin squish under his fingers, lets a little more of his weight sag as he leans into him further. His thumb brushes back and forth over Elio’s cheek, the place where the smooth plane of flesh meets the sharp edge of bone, the place where he blushes so prettily. He inhales, breathes in the warm scent of Elio’s skin and the delicate odor of his breath, exhales his own into Elio’s slightly parted mouth. Feels Elio’s puff of breath in return. He likes that they are sharing the same air now, as if they are sustaining each other, as if they are one.

He smooths his hand to the side of Elio’s face, fingers catching on his earlobe and caressing the soft skin there. Everything about him is addicting: his closeness, his softness, every touch from him, every breath. In the relative quiet of the room, Oliver can clearly hear each time air rushes in and out of his lungs, coming in and out through parted lips. He can sort of see those lips now, his vision slightly blurring with how close they are. But the view also affords him the luxury of observing details he would otherwise have missed -- there’s a freckle on his upper lip, to the right side of his cupid’s bow, a bit of hair dusting the space between his lip and nose. Oliver gets lost following the lines of his lips with his gaze, tracing over every way in which Elio’s mouth has curved, pouted, and twisted. He suddenly has a need to catalogue every one of these motions, to observe the way the lines indent and fold together as his lips move.

As if Elio can sense what Oliver is thinking about — and it shouldn’t be all that hard to deduce, Oliver supposes, starting at his lips longingly as he is — Elio licks them. Oliver can’t help the way his gaze latches onto and follows the pink bit of his tongue that sticks out and swipes over both upper and lower lip, leaving a trail of moisture in its wake. Oliver’s mouth suddenly feels dry, and he licks his own lips, looks up to find Elio staring down at the place his own tongue just moved across.

He pulls back a bit, Elio’s face coming into better focus in all its lovely detail. He wants to take his time tracing over every feature, memorizing every little detail. But he can’t tear his eyes away from Elio’s, is mesmerized by the look in them. He notices that his pupils are a bit darker, probably appearing that way because they’ve widened slightly. Right now Oliver can’t really process that he might be the cause of that, but then again he suspects that at the moment, Elio’s current expression is probably reflected on his own face.

Because he’s enchanted by Elio, intoxicated by him. By his looks, yes, but also by his moodiness, his piano playing; is completely bowled over by his intelligence and the way all his emotions play so plainly across his face. And now, also by the smell of him, his smooth skin, and the weight of him in Oliver’s hands.

He stretches out his thumb, manages to catch the corner of Elio’s mouth with the pad of it, moving over the bit of his bottom lip he can reach as well. His heart is bursting with how much he feels for Elio as he holds him like precious cargo, caressing over his face with tenderness and care. He knows he’s been fighting this for a while now, has been holding back his feelings, only realizing the weight and volume of them as they rise up and threaten to crash over him. He feels like he might be taken under, but remains too curious about what’ll happen when he drowns himself in all of it to keep on pushing him away.

So for now, Oliver gives into the emotions swirling inside his heart. Sighs. Falls into him again.

“Elio,” he says, breathing it out right against his lips.

And then he can’t breathe anymore as he feels Elio’s tongue peek out and touch his own lips, licking at him gently before retreating. It happens so fast that Oliver almost thinks he dreamed it, save for the fact that a small spot of wetness remains on his lips where Elio’s tongue had just been. Oliver’s still not taken a breath when Elio’s hand falls on his shoulder, gripping him briefly before sliding down his arm, making goosebumps rise in the wake of his touch. When he reaches Oliver’s hand he lets his thumb slide into the palm as his other fingers wrap around the back side. He proceeds to lightly massage the fleshy bit in the middle before moving onto his thumb, his pointer, and so on, caressing each and every one of his fingers in turn.

Oliver finally inhales, closes his eyes and lets his forehead slip against Elio’s, twisting a bit so his mouth falls against his cheek. Brushes his lips across the skin he’d previously only touched with his palm, the tips of his fingers. The brushes turn into soft kisses as he moves towards his ear, dropping a line of them across his cheekbone; reaches his earlobe and has to kiss that, too, has to make sure he kisses every single part he’s touched so far.

“Good?” Oliver asks, right against his ear.

Feels Elio’s head move against his as he nods. Lowers his mouth so he catches Elio’s earlobe between his teeth, bites down gently. That earns him a soft gasp from Elio and hands squeezing at his upper arms. He relishes the feel of Elio’s fingertips digging into his skin, wants his touch to sink into him until it’s imprinted there forever.

He lets head fall into the crook of Elio’s neck, mouth grazing against his pulse point, gliding down the side until he reaches the junction of his shoulder. His heart is racing and he feels like he has to work a little harder to get oxygen into his system, the fact that he’s touching Elio and Elio is touching him back making him more than a little breathless.

Elio’s hands glide down his arms and skip over to his torso, cupping at his sides and continuing to snake around him. Soon he’s wrapped up completely in Elio’s embrace and it’s easy to snuggle against him. Emotion wells in his chest, in his throat, behind his eyes, the feeling of being held by him more than he could have ever dreamed of. Oliver wants to hold and be held in equal measure, so he slides his own hands over Elio’s skin, one landing on his thinly-covered hip, the other cupping at the back of his head. He squeezes both hands around him, needing to embed his own touch into Elio’s skin, needing to feel the flesh move under his own.

Oliver breathes against him, wanting nothing more than to luxuriate in the feeling of Elio’s hands on him, of their bare chests touching. Of both listening to and feeling each and every one of his soft breaths, letting the regularity of them become his measure of time.

But apparently Elio has other ideas, because his arms tighten around him and he’s swiftly pulled along as Elio falls back onto the bed. Oliver lands on top of him, limbs akimbo and his body at a slightly awkward angle, but soon they both adjust for maximum comfort, for the most amount of skin to be touching between them.

He buries his head in Elio’s neck again as he stretches out his legs; feels one foot wrap around his calf as two hands smooth over the planes of his back. It’s warm in the little crevasse of Elio’s body he’s currently pressed into, his own hot breath ghosting against smooth skin and bouncing back against his face. He breathes out a little more heavily, sighing as the comfort of the position overtakes him, both the warmth and darkness letting him relax, letting him focus only on the feel of Elio’s skin against his. He feels Elio shiver a bit as he exhales, feels hands tighten their grip on his flesh.

As an experiment, Oliver lets another hot, heavy breath escape his mouth at the same time his hand curves more firmly around Elio’s hipbone and squeezes. This time Elio lets out a sound, like a little whimper that got caught in his throat. Oliver can feel it seep into him, reverberate inside of him. It’s almost as if Elio was trying to hold back but hadn’t been able to, and Oliver’s mind immediately spins out all the possibilities of what else he could do to make him make that noise again. Or, perhaps there are other noises he could elicit from Elio yet, a thrill running through him at the thought.

He pushes his face further into Elio’s neck, mouth touching down on his skin, needing to feel more of it with every part of himself. He lets his lips brush wetly against Elio’s neck and breathes into him. Then there’s fingers pushing through his hair, grabbing onto a clump of it and pulling in the most delicious way. The move goes straight to Oliver’s dick, and he feels it fill out a little within the confines of his blue swimming trunks. The fingers in his hair comb through and pull again; unconsciously, Oliver pushes his hips against the thigh between his legs. The pressure is delicious and it’s then that he realizes he could come like this, if they continue what they’re doing, if he keeps rutting against Elio’s thigh, if they carry on touching like this (or maybe touching more). That thought alone makes him harden further, as well as the one that follows: if he could come like this, could Elio come too?

He’s already crossed so many lines and doesn’t want to cross any more of them without confirmation that it’s also what Elio wants. Unlike his decision to burst through the door, he’s going to wait for an answer this time. He pulls back to get a look at Elio’s face and sees that it’s changed considerably since the time he pushed into the dark softness of his neck. Now his eyes are considerably darker, the pupils blown wide, his cheeks flushed in that lovely way that Oliver loves, his lips redder and seemingly more full. Desire rushes through Oliver and he wants to dive into him, wants to consume and be consumed by him. But first he has to ask, has to make sure.

“Elio,” he says, breathing that name he holds dear into the space between them. His voice is whisper-soft and the word rolls off his tongue in supplication, like it’s something sacred. Beneath him, Elio gazes up with wide eyes, such an unguarded expression in them that Oliver thinks he can see all the way to the very core of him.

He smooths his hand up Elio’s side, from hipbone to chest, circling a nipple with his palm, grazing briefly against the dip of his bellybutton on the way down, landing back at his hip. His thumb finds the waistband of Elio’s thin cotton boxers, stroking across it as he gazes into his eyes. The way Elio is looking up at him makes him feel dizzy; they’ve looked at each other plenty by now but never like this, so open and desirous. Elio is shaking slightly, maybe from excitement, maybe from nerves, he can’t tell, but he’s letting Oliver see all of him, laying himself out plainly to be looked at without any screens in front of him, without hiding a single thing. And Oliver admires him for it, is captivated by his openness, as he always has been, but seeing it up close just deepens his sense of awe. Wants to worship him for it, for that ability to let himself be discovered, to let himself be recognized.

Oliver feels magnetically pulled into him again, the force between their gazes dragging them together. He leans into it, lets the muscles of his neck relax from their effort of holding him up, only closing his eyes when his mouth touches down on the corner of Elio’s lips. He purses his lips, sustaining the kiss for a full round of inhale-exhale as he breathes against him. Then smooths across the boxers’ waistband as he brings his head back up to meet Elio’s dark green gaze, flicking down to the crimson, wet shine of his lips for a brief moment before looking into his eyes again.

“Still good?” he asks, feeling the heat of the skin at Elio’s low belly seep through the cotton and into his hand.

“Mmm,” Elio responds, eyes fluttering briefly closed. The small noise is literal music to Oliver’s ears, but he needs to know what it means.

“Yes?” he asks, wanting to be sure.

There’s a moment of pause before he hears a breathy “Yes” fall from Elio’s lips.

He watches Elio’s face as he slowly moves his hand. Watches as Elio’s breathing speeds up til his chest is practically heaving. Watches as he bites those lips and makes them even redder, even more wet in the process. As Oliver dips his fingers beneath the boxers’ waistband and finds the smoothest skin, then a slightly rougher patch of hair. He keeps descending until he finds Elio’s cock, already stiff and wet.

Closes his hand around him, pressing his thumb to the sticky tip. Even though Oliver’s only just begun touching him, Elio is already writhing beneath him, panting heavily and unable to keep his eyes open for very long. Oliver watches as his eyelashes touch down on his flushed cheeks intermittently, his eyes opening and closing like the wings of a butterfly. Starts circling his thumb around the head of Elio’s cock, a slow motion round and round, finding enough moisture there to glide smoothly over the tip again and again.

“Oliver.”

Hearing his name fall from Elio’s lips in a reverent whisper is almost enough to make Oliver come undone. Every emotion surges inside of him - desperation, gratitude, anguish, adoration - and he is overwhelmed. He gets swept up in the tide of his own feelings and squeezes his eyes shut, at the same time accidentally squeezing around Elio’s dick, harder than he means to.

Elio moans.

It sounds like it’s been torn from Elio’s throat, erupting into the still air of the room, guttural and unrestrained. And it’s one of the best things Oliver’s ever heard in his life. He wishes he could bottle it somehow, etch it into his very being so he could carry it with him always.

The sound spurs him on, and he starts moving his hand up and down the length of Elio’s cock inside his boxers, getting lost in the rhythm of his fist. Lost in the flashes of green he sees as Elio’s eyelids flutter over and over, blinking at him like he’s looking at a broken traffic light stuck on go, a secret signal coming across the plain in Morse code.

He’s lost in it all, the scent of Elio’s arousal saturating the room, overtaking his senses.

“Oliver,” Elio says again, only this time it comes out on a moan. Oliver’s skin prickles. His dick is now just as hard as the one he’s stroking, and he feels himself getting ever closer to the edge.

It doesn’t help that Elio is writhing around beneath him, each stroke of Oliver’s hand on his dick causing him to wriggle around, occasionally shifting his thigh so it pushes up more firmly against Oliver’s dick. The pressure is delicious and provides just enough stimulation to drive him towards what he knows is an inevitable orgasm.

And it seems that Elio is getting close, too. There’s a thin sheen of perspiration on his forehead and upper lip, a deep flush on his cheeks. The combination makes him look like a literal angel, especially with the halo of dark curls that surrounds him. Oliver watches as he licks his lips, mouth automatically falling open again to let out hot, panting breaths.

Oliver’s dick is so hard now, and aching. He wants to come so badly but he won’t until Elio does, wants to see him fall apart first, doesn’t want to miss a thing. With his hand still gripping Elio’s dick, he shifts to relieve the pressure on his dick, or to seek out more, he isn’t exactly sure, and the move makes the nail on his thumb drag across the underside of Elio’s tip.

“Oh fuck,” Elio gasps, and Oliver’s body tenses further in anticipation of what’s to come. He’s panting just as hard as Elio now, breathless from the sights and sounds of the beautiful creature beneath him and his own imminent pleasure.

And he’s spurred on by Elio’s gasping curse, by the white-hot desire coursing through his body, moving his hand up and down at the same time that he rocks his hips minutely. His gaze shifts off Elio’s face momentarily and lands on the jut of his collarbone, protruding from his otherwise smooth skin. It looks deliciously inviting, so Oliver leans down and licks across it, not ceasing the movement of his hand, adding a little twist every now and again.

It’s when his tongue touches down that Elio’s body starts convulsing, and Oliver feels the cock within his grasp swell and twitch, spurting into his hand, soaking into the soft cotton boxers. Elio’s face twists and contorts, and he lets out the most gorgeous noises, along with the occasional curse; it’s the most beautiful thing Oliver’s ever seen, this angel in the throes of ecstasy. Then he only needs a few more thrusts of his hips to start shooting off inside his own trunks, working Elio through the last of his climax as he leans down into him again. They jerk against each other as their orgasms peak and subside, palpitating like the beat of a heart, like the two chambers working in tandem to pump life into them both.

Oliver stops the movements of his hand, of his hips, his body still except for the great heaving motions of his chest where he’s lying against Elio. He just breathes against him, face resting against his shoulder, as he hears Elio’s panting breaths and the soft ’fuck’ he mutters next to his ear. All his limbs turn liquid in the bliss of his post-orgasmic state, and he feels more content than he has in a very long time.

After a while, he extracts his hand from Elio’s boxers and lets it flop onto the mattress next to Elio’s hip. He spares a thought for Mafalda, the look on her face when she does the washing next time, but he’s too happy with what’s just transpired to worry about it too much. He feels calm, and satisfied, and more at peace. He’s glad he stayed.

Is Elio glad, too?

Oliver turns his head so his cheek rests against him. In the wake of his orgasm, and seeing Elio reach his, he knows now that whatever he feels for him is big - it has far more dimension, depth, and weight than he’d previously thought. He can sense its magnitude inside his body, how it wants to burst out of him with how substantial it is.

There’s never going to be a way to adequately express how he feels, Oliver thinks. Not about this. Emotion seizes in his chest, tightens further at the possibility of not finding the right words, not ever.

His skin itches with it all and he shifts slightly against Elio, the crushing weight of his thoughts making him squirm with the need to move. Elio must think he’s trying to get away from him because his arm circles around Oilver’s neck, holding him in place. Then Elio’s hand is back in his hair, fingers brushing against his scalp and smoothing through his golden locks. It soothes Oliver, quiets his heart enough to relax against Elio again, to let him know he isn’t going anywhere. He snuggles into the crook of Elio’s neck again, where it’s safe and warm, and basks in his presence, in his skin. Lets himself become entwined in him again as Elio’s leg wraps around his, as his mouth comes closer to his ear.

“Stay,” Elio whispers.