#cmbyn10

Oh man that was hard. So I wrote this in 10 but I reckon I had at least an extra 3 to edit. If other people’s weekends have found their way into their ficlets they sound more interesting than mine, which has involved quite a lot of sorting out and housework. Hence:

Woman’s Work Elio/Oliver at a squint

Monday and Friday are the days to change the bedlinen, after the every-day chores; Mafalda moves through the house in her accustomed routines, her mother’s voice always in her head, counting out the household duties, criticising her folding and commenting on the amount of salt she puts in the soup.

The study, quickly, before the Professor wants to start fussing with his books and papers but don’t put anything out of place, don’t thrown anything away, even if it looks like it’s fit for the fire. Dust with a wet cloth, lavender oil is good to add to polish too, blend it with beeswax…

Bathrooms next, vinegar is best for bathrooms but lemonjuice for the steel and bicarbonate of soda for the sinks. There’s a mess of towels and shirts and wet swimming trunks in Elio’s bathroom. Mafalda sighs and scoops them up, back downstairs then to put them in the washing pile.

A bicycle bell and Mr Oliver goes past the window, Mafalda counts quietly to herself, a little bet: sure enough, 30 seconds later, there goes Elio.

She climbs the stairs again, a little harder on the knees with every year that passes, to make the beds. White linen for Madame, as ever, stripes for Elio, the same he had when he was little, the same he had the summer when he stayed indoors with the curtains drawn watching tennis, wearing a striped headband like that long-haired blond hippy player he liked.

Oliver’s bed gets Mafalda’s favourite sheets, the ones with yellow hearts and swirls. Lavender oil for freshness. These sheets are right for him, sunny and bold like him. Handsome.

She remembers Annella at 17, not long after the family had returned to the house, the village still getting used to having Jewish neighbours again, what was to be remembered, what forgotten. She was so beautiful, the boys from the village used to look in the gates just to catch a glimpse of her, there was one with a motorbike… but then Mr Perlman had come, that first American visitor, and he could make her laugh, and he danced so well...Fold and tuck, Mafalda, hospital corners, or they’ll ruck and you’ll have to remake them.

In Elio’s room she picks up a paper from the floor, written in English, she can’t read it, but she can see it’s written in two hands so she folds it into her apron pocket. They think they’re so clever and secret, young people. Sneaking around. But old houses remember things, floorboards that creak, doors that slam. 

Better him, this American, maybe, than those girls who hang around. But Elio has always taken things so seriously, even as a little boy. 

She piles his discarded books on the desk, shakes out his pillow, smooths his sheets again.

This is my Elio/Oliver entry for the CMBYN 10 minute challenge. A reverse POV look at a moment from Rondo. Tagged by @hammer-chalamet. 

Pianissimo

There is only one thing in the house that feels like him: the piano. It's a rich brown color, like caramel, the marbled wood grain decorated with a yellow-gold inlay of ribbons and mandolins; ornate, delicate and stunning. Standing near it, with him only a few steps away—softly telling you how, starting when he was four years old, his grandmother taught him scales at her knee—you watch his mouth move. The way it always looks like he's whispering even when he's not. The shape his lips make around words, puckering, then closing, as if he's shushing himself, stilling his tongue, pausing intently before each murmured rush of consonants. 

It’s almost apologetic. Until it absolutely isn't. No one is better at catching you off-guard.

Elio taps one finger, idle and long, on the lacquered surface, then rubs a spot there.

"So. Do you want to see upstairs?"

It is so quiet, the hollow catch of his breath following the question mark is perfectly, gloriously audible.

He brings a hand up to his long, curling hair, brushing it back, eyeing you as if he's not really sure what your play is. You nod back, thinking, there is no play.

How does one say, in French: I have waited to be here again. Next to you. I have been waiting. I will wait. How do you say it in Italian? In Mafalda's incomprehensible Lombard? In a way that sounds like home? You cannot bring yourself to say it. In any language.

It's much too soon to speak.

I don’t write quickly. I like re-reading and tweaking virtually every sentence, so this was difficult. I wasn’t tagged in the original post, but I really wanted to have a go at this. Hope nobody minds :)

Discaimer: It took me 9.59 minutes BUT three sentences were in Italian because I didn’t remember how they were written in time. And I had literally  no idea how to say a particular expression related to the dance in English (which could still be wrong, blame the only article that I found about the choreography of Dirty Dancing.).

Armie/Timmy as always.

I carried a peach

“Dance with me.”

“No.”

“C’mon, man!”

“Nope. Definitely nope. I’m not drunk enough to dance, even with you.”

Timmy fills a glass of barbera and hands it to him. Armie snorts.

"Are you trying to get me drunk and have your way with me?”

“I don’t need wine for that. I’m trying to get you drunk to dance with me.”

Armie sighs.

Again. “C’mon Armie!”

“Nope. We aren’t in some Dirty Dancing shit.”

“I was thinking more to Step up.”

“Step up? Fuck, man how old are you? Twelve?”

“There was some hip hop in the soundtrack.” Timmy raises his hands as if he were looking for an excuse.

“And Dirty Dancing is a classic of my generation, young man.” Smiling.

Armie’s smile is his favorite thing in the world after rap and acting.

“I carried a peach.” Timmy says mimicking Baby's voice.

“A peach instead of a watermelon? Are you really so stingy?”

“Hey man we are on indie low budget movie. A peach is the only fruit we can afford."

"Is it the reason why you always steal my clothing?"

!No, I only do it to give Luca the chance to see your nipples.” Timmy bursts into laughter.

“Please do not go there. I will never be drunk enough.”

“And because they make me feel warm.” More softly.

“Timmy is summer, it's hot all the fucking time.” Armie tries to make it a joke. It’s not. Or maybe it is. Maybe everything is a joke and nothing it is.

“It does not matter, it's ... nice.”

After a few seconds. “Dance with me, I would be perfect like Baby and you would be perfect like Johnny. You are so tall that we could even make the lift scene like in the movie.”

“I would let you fall.”

“No you wouldn’t.”

“Timmy I can’t dance, You would jump and I would risk to make you fall.”

“You wouldn’t let me fall.” And when he tells that, he looks him in the eye with such intensity that Armie knows they aren’t talking about dancing.

“Dance with Me.” Timmy says again.

“Kiss me.”

 I’m tagging some of the participants, if I forget someone, it's because I'm me as always. And I write in english as Oliver speaks in italian.

(I have another idea but depends on if I can go to the supermarket tomorrow)

This is my first attempt at CMBYN fanfic writing ever, and I went over by 2 minutes in rereading and editing what I’d written, so epic fail on the time front (I had to look up how Praecoquum  was spelled among other things). I’ll try again later and see what comes out.

In the movie, I always found it interesting that both times Oliver is depicted after being intimate with Elio, he doesn’t seem to sleep very much. The first time they are together, he is holding him, lost in thought. In Bergamo, he is first at the window, also thinking, and then on the bed next to Elio, where we get that wonderful, long shot of his face, 1000 emotions playing across them. So I chose to write about that first morning after.

*****

A thousand realizations washed over me. But the one that lingered as dawn broke over the balcony and filtered into the French windows of Elio’s bedroom was, I’ll never be able to fall asleep next to him.

I could lie next to him. His skin possessed that soft, flawless texture that made contact with him an incontrovertible pleasure. And his hair. The fragrance of Elio’s thick curls made impossible dreams swim behind my eyes until thought became incoherence and I was reduced to staring at him in that way that always made him turn away. Praecoquum, pre-coquere, ripened, sweet man fruit. Precocious Elio, with his long, slender limbs and fingers who, before last night, had never gripped anything more unwieldy than a pen or my cock.

I hissed involuntarily, swallowing it lest I wake him. I could lie next to him, under him, over him - how I loved to be on top of him - but I wouldn’t be here long enough to learn to sleep next to him. I was too aware, my thirst far too unslaked to do something as banal as losing consciousness next to him.

There was the body, of course, with its coarse demands and its animal needs and sleep, I suppose, was one of them. I could succumb, just close my eyes for a bit. It was conceivable.

But sleep - deep, profound, indifferent, while his existence pressed against mine - would elude me. Elio demanded my attention the way the strains of his guitar demanded to be heard and felt. Insisted that I open myself to his music and let it enter me. Respond and be wooed by it and become one with it. Elio and Oliver. Oliver and Elio.

I couldn’t deny Elio here, with me. He would wake soon and I’d have to reckon with this night, with his name still in my ear whispered, hesitant at first, then playfully, and finally with such ardor, I could have climbed up to the sky and plucked the moon down from it had he asked me with the same inflection. I would have to reckon with his obscenities, and the way he’d begged me you’ll kill me if you stop, over and over. I’d never erase the sound from my memory.

There wouldn’t be enough time for me to learn to fall asleep next to him. Just please, let him not hate me for it. I’ll become stone and never sleep again. I could do this. But don’t let him hate me for any of it.

*****

Thank you, @holdmygazeoliver for tagging me. I hope I didn’t leave anyone out:

Okay so I did this in ten minutes and it’s actually uhhhh an outtake from What We Both Need that’s been rattling around in my head for a while so I figured maybe if I wrote it for the challenge that it would finally get out! There’s ~allusions~ to Armie in this for those of you who have read the series, but it’s pretty heavily focused on Timmy. Sorry???? 

@cmbyn-ghostspots @rainbowdazzle @billowyblues @timelosserscmbynobsession @nellipot @isitandwonder @simpi2274 @foryou-insilence @694699 @cristinasea @maddsmalroy @backofthepostcard @thestarsaregivenonceonly @tequilatuesdays4all @shellgoes211 @onedollarpoet @givenonceonly

Crystal Ball

I’m so excited! It’s the first time I write something like this and in english. I had to write in spanish some parts to star but translated it and then I kept on going in english. This was a great thing to do, I loved it but the time press wasn’t easy so I must admit that I spended more time than 10 minutes (18 min. to be more exact)

My inspiration is a song from my favorite band Keane, Crystal ball. If you don’t know them go and listen, they are great and deep! Here is a link to the song: 

https://open.spotify.com/track/1iew6eeA9jhU8cNeSOBbYe?si=EoYL8-_NQmS1G6B9JK6lWA

Armie x Timmy

In the restroom at the Oscar, Armie can’t breathe and this happens:

Look at you! You're nothing but a joke!, he said to himself looking in the mirror. What a pathetic piece of shit!Armie was tired of having to pretend. He was tired of wearing that facade he had been wearing since he was a child not to disappoint his family, to don't disappoint his wife either the world. He was tired of pretending to be someone he wasn’t.Tears began to show in his eyes and he felt a ball forming in his throat. He remembered that thanks to Timmy he had awakened from the hell that hiding meaned all these years. Sometimes he didn’t recognize himself, many times he didn’t know where he was, what he wanted. With Timmy, he didn’t have to pretend to be other than himself. He knows his secret and loves him for who he is.Timmy! Oh Timmy! My sweet heart! My compass!, he whispered and tears started streaming down his face now. But the worst was that he couldn't demand anything from him. How could he? And that scared him. He could lose the most precious love he had ever had. Not accepting himself or taking off his heavy mask would make him lose him. How much more could Timmy endure only because he couldn't make his mind? Shit!, he thought while he looked himself in the mirror again and dried his tears. He wanted to run away with him and forget the world. Why not shout to the sky what he felt and say who he really was? God, why? He look at his face once again and the mask was back as soon as his tears were gone. He acted like everything was allright. He put a smile on his face and turned on to go back to the show. Behind him was his Timmy with tears in his eyes looking at him...

Hope you liked it and don’t judge me hardly, please! 

thanks to @hammer-chalamet for tagging me!! 

have a not-really-Charmie Lone Ranger x Hostiles AU inspired by this post. i know basically nothing about The Lone Ranger except that Armie’s character is v dirty and rugged™, but this was fun. :)

John knows something’s not right as soon as he rides into the gully. It’s quiet here–no birds, no scuttling critters, no sound at all except the heavy whoosh of buzzard wings. He keeps going anyways, scanning the horizon, until he comes to the first body. 

Silver stops dead in his tracks, and John slips off his back, stooping to examine the corpse. Military. A little further on, another body. Comanche, judging by the clothes. There’s scattered supplies in amongst the dead folks, but John doesn’t bother with that; he has enough bullets, and he knows Tonto will have caught a rabbit or two for supper. The sun’s already low in the sky and they’re due to rendezvous in an hour or so. 

At first, he’s not sure why the body in the ditch catches his eye. Another military uniform riddled with bullets, stained with blood, just like all the others. But the boy is young–barely a shadow of hair on his upper lip–and something about the sight of his pale, fine-featured face makes John take pause. 

“Poor son of a bitch,” he says, and Silver whinnies softly like he understands John’s melancholy precisely. Doesn’t help the way the boy’s lying, all haphazard, limbs akimbo like a broken marionette. Not dignified. But John doesn’t have time to dig a proper grave and the buzzards are circling. 

He spots a blanket a few feet away and grabs it, meaning to spread it out over the body. Before he can, the boy sits bolt upright with a gasp. 

John nearly has a heart attack.

*

Tonto doesn’t say anything when John slings him down in front of the fire, just raises an eyebrow in a way that John knows all too well. 

“Think you can help him?” he asks, and Tonto bends down, examining him with a frown.

“We’ll see.” 

*

It’s dark when he finally comes to. Tonto’s off doing god-knows-what and John is staring into the fire. It’s quiet one minute, and then the kid mutters and moans and John nearly jumps out of his skin. He practically has to hold the boy down as he thrashes wildly, muttering in a mixture of English and French about an attack, about the Comanche, about someone named Rosalee Quaid. 

“You’re safe now, you got that?” John tells him over and over. “Calm down or you’ll hurt yourself.”

Eventually the kid stills. 

“What happened?” he asks in a thick French accent, voice hoarse, and John holds a flask of water to his lips. 

“Looks like you were ambushed. Your party left you for dead.” 

The kid manages a few sips, then lies back, spent. His eyes are wide and afraid, but even in the darkness John’s struck by his features. The word angelic comes to mind. 

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“Private Philippe DeJardin,” the kid mumbles. 

“Well, I’m John. John Reid.” 

Philippe’s eyes go wide, and John would be lying if he said that wasn’t just a little bit satisfying. 

“The Lone Ranger,” he breathes, and John smiles. 

“Pleased to meet you.” 

tagging @meggiesobsessions @deadantmen @guccichalamet @pajamasecrets and anyone else who wants! i think this is technically supposed to be CMBYN-specific but i think it’s kind of a fun writing challenge that could be for any fandom, really. :P just set a timer for 10 mins and go, then post the result! :)