his mother annella had told elio that there'd be another student staying in their villa over the summer, just like last one, and the one before, and the one before that one

elio had gotten used to moving out of his room and into the one next to it for four weeks every year, sharing the bathroom with whatever stranger would stay over

throwing his bike into the bushes carelessly and skipping down the gravel path to the perlman's villa, he pulled his headphones out of his hair, making the music fade slightly

he'd just come back from a swim at his favorite spot, a small lake, lined by green trees, the perfect spot to read and be alone

with dripping hair that stained his blue polo shirt with small, dark dots around his shoulders, he skipped up the stairs, tossing his headphones and book onto his bed before grabbing a cigarette and his notebook

by the window he lit the cigarette and, taking a deep drag of it, sketched down a few lines so he could compose another piece for him to play on the piano

the cloud of smoke he blew put curled up into the air, fogging his sight for a second and burning in his green-ish eyes, making him blink

his father's voice and the screeching tires of the halting green fiat 127 caused him to raise his gaze off the composition and lean out of the window, the cigarette still between his lips

car doors slammed shut, luggage was lifted from the truck, and then you rounded the small vehicle; you were young

elio's age, and elio's type, too, he noted as he watched you greet his mother, putting his cigarette out on his window sill

his gaze did not falter, until his mother spotted him and called up to him in french, demanding that he help you with the bags

"ciao", he greeted you as he skipped down the stairs lazily, holding out his hand as an offer to take one of your suitcases, "may I help you?" he spoke in surprisingly fluid english