elio perlman harbored a fondness for the languorous embrace of summer’s heat. it reminded him of being a young boy at his family’s villa, of how his mother would delicately slice ripe, golden apricots and arrange them artfully upon fine china, like the petals of a sunflower.

though he still returned to those sun-drenched walls every year, the circumstances were different. he’d grown up, or at least he assured himself he had.

the season had been a mess thus far. marzia, oliver, his father forcing him into an abhorrent floral shirt—it was more than just another holiday somewhere in northern italy. he had you, though. he could flash you one of his coy, shit-eating grins and have your company in an instant. as his mother—annella—adored you, it was hardly a surprise that you stayed over at the perlmans’ every summer.

italian cultural immersion. the heady flavors of rustic cuisine, the lively chaos of crema’s streets at rush hour, the humid sweetness of annella’s sunlit grove—for free. you were living the dream.

as it was, elio, in a fit of boredom, had forced you out of bed at unholy hours of the evening (you had no idea how he’d even gotten in, since you locked your door) to go for a swim in laghetto dei riflessi.

“come on, the water isn’t that cold. it’s the middle of summer.” elio chided, hanging in the shallow water in front of you. face to face, knee to knee.

even if the water bore a chill, the balmy night air, thick with the scent of blooming jasmine, would have sufficed to banish any lingering discomfort. elio had your hands loosely captive in his under the surface, his cheeks lightly flushed like a cherub from the bike ride. he was smiling, of course he was. the radiant bastard.

“il cielo è carino. even more so when you aren’t supposed to be seeing it.” he hummed, thumb idly rubbing the back of your knuckles—oddly domestic for someone who had spent the past five minutes attempting to either splash, or drown you. “not that my parents would mind. they think you’re a delightful influence.”