fire.

this was the only word that came to Elio’s mind when he tried to describe all of this into his diary.

the aching, burning need—the desperate thought of; if this man doesn’t come through my door in a minute more i’ll die.

fire, fire like a plea that begs,please, come and ask if he wants it and watch him crumble down like one of those wood puppets that fall limbless when you touch the little spring button at their feet, because how can he not want you? how can you be the cruelest man alive?

he’s made an habit out of laying in his bed with the door halfway open for you to see him, a bit damp from the pool still and with nothing but his swimsuit on, burning alive, his flushed face hidden in the fold of his elbow, waiting for you to take advantage of the fact that his family is at the beach and had left the usually crowded house in forlorn.

you’ve taken so so so so long, he’s loosing his mind, his back arches at nothing, his breathing goes unsteady at random, you’re cruel, he can feel you staring, that only manages to make it even worse.