#post-reunion

"Whyever are you looking at me like that?" Penelope laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners like the folds of the finest blankets she weaves. The greys in her hair sparkle like caught starlight, the faint brackets about her mouth deepening when she smiles over her shoulder at him. 

Odysseus cannot look away. He hasn’t been able to, not since he finally returned. 

He flexes his hands idly, letting them hang between his knees. The urge to grab Penelope and drag her back into the bed, with him, is nigh-on overwhelming. But he must let her out of his grip at some point—and she is weaving in front of the window, something he knows she loves. He couldn’t countenance taking her away from something she loves.

"Odysseus?" He blinks. Thoughts come and wash away like the gentle lapping of the tides on the shore for him. Now more than ever: the peace is making him into something soft. "Come here, strange man," Penelope beckons, turning sideways on her stool. “What are you thinking about so hard—?”

Penelope moves to get up, but he's too quick to settle on the floor at her feet, old bones creaking as he all but leaps off of the bed. She does little more than stand before he’s there, nuzzling his head into her thighs, coaxing with calloused hands on her hips for her to sit again. Penelope does, slowly, and then he sighs lowly in pure contentment. 

He places his head in her lap, leans against her shins with his torso. Penelope’s knees dig into the space just below his collarbones, his heartbeat thrumming against them like a plucked lyre-string. His fingers inch upwards, until he can clasp them around her waist, urging her further into his own body. Penelope giggles—and oh, what a wondrous sound! It makes his heart soar up on fluffed, downy wings. She parts her legs so he can be that much closer to her, her arms reaching out to cradle his shoulders, his head, against her belly and her bosom. He curls around her as she has curled around him and it is perfect. 

"Odysseus," she sighs, but under the exasperation is a fondness as deep and fathomless as the sea. "You lovely, wonderful, strange man."

"Dear woman," he murmurs into the plush of her breast, hands sliding down to her thighs, relishing in how they pudge out while she's sitting. He lets his palms be heavy and greedy on his way back up, grinning at the shiver he causes to creep up her spine. Odysseus can’t help but flex his fingers, testing her ribs, feeling as they move with every breath. "My dearest, my wife," he croons, looking up through his lashes.

She's blushing like a girl-child at him, and he knows from the heat in his own cheeks that he's not far off, himself. But that's alright. 

Let them be fools in love, now that they have the time. Penelope presses a palm to his face, thumb following the arc of upturned cheekbone. She bends downwards as he reaches up: mirrors of each other, always.

Forever. Never again shall they be parted. After all—he can’t countenance taking away something she loves, now can he?

It’d be easy, he thinks, to indulge his inner-wastrel. Enjoy the liminal hush of a September afternoon. Drift back to his dreams. Yet no amount of tossing and turning can quell his latent curiosity, and for his sins, the bed feels loathsomely empty without Oliver’s steadfast presence beside him. 

“Dannazione…” he grumbles, wrestling free of the blankets’ grip, then swings his unsocked feet to the chilly floorboards as he forgoes the caffeine-rich temptation of his trusty Moka pot. 

There’s a thin, cotton Oxford draped over the cluttered writing desk - his, Oliver’s, Elio cares not which - and distracted by the fiddly buttons he almost trips over a plastic tennis racket discarded by the baseboard. A solitary Spider-Man sneaker lies atop it - its counterpart, he notices, sits adjacent to Oliver’s sand-flecked espadrilles. Wherever he’s gone, presumably it can’t be far, and when a cursory check of the ensuite finds their swimming trunks still drying over the bathtub faucets, Elio ventures out of the master bedroom, continuing his game of cat-and-mouse in the deserted corridor, instead. 

He’s halfway down the foyer staircase when he hears it: Oliver’s soothing baritone. Something twinges in his gut as he follows the siren call - even at a distance, the lyrical spiel is strikingly familiar - and knuckling the sleep from his gritty eyelids he avoids the creakiest steps out of instinct, not wanting to divert his beloved’s attention when he’s clearly in full-flow. 

Pavlovian, maybe, but the confident nature of Oliver’s professore voice is wont to summon goosebumps over Elio’s skin, and right now, there’s a deeper quality, also. 

Something sweet. 

Indulgent. 

Fondness, wrapped in an innate layer of contentment. 

Theories come and go, his father used to say, debating some pompous scholar over the al fresco dining table, yet fundamental data remains the same, and edging closer to the living room door, Elio pauses at the threshold, his previous suspicions confirmed the very moment he clocks the winsome scene before him.

Of Oliver - bearded chin cushioned by his brother’s corkscrew-curls - faithfully narrating the Doctor Seuss anthology their Papà couldn’t bear to part with. The whimsical verses he’d read to he and Ollie, both; albeit several decades apart.

“History is cyclic,” Elio’d quoted back in June, yawning fiercely through one of their late-night phone calls. “...and I can’t wait to make new memories with you. Not to replace the originals, of course,” he’d reassured quickly. “Au contraire! But to have them exist side-by-side. Our past and present, combined. Concrete foundations on which to build our future.” 

So Elio does just that as he leans his weight against the solid oak frame, a helpless smile touching his lips at the way Little Ollie’s bundled comfortably in his namesake’s lap. The Boba Fett plushie Oliver shipped from the States tucked securely in the crook of his elbow. Polpetta hunkered loyally by his dangling ankles. 

Ostensibly, his younger brother looks enthralled by the book’s varied illustrations, yet Elio recognises his owlish blinks for what they truly are: the pre-adolescent nap time stubbornness intrinsic to all Perlman males.

According to Miranda and his mother, at any rate.

“...never forget to be dexterous and deft,” Oliver murmurs, a small, paint-stained fist clutching his charcoal-grey t-shirt. “...and never mix up your right foot with your left…”

Again, that unnamed something tugs at Elio’s midsection; the hairs on his forearms rising much as they did that long-ago summer when they first recited Frost and Neruda late into the night: the pair of them laid out on an old, tartan throw-rug beneath an endless canopy of stars. 

“...so be your name Buxbaum or Bixby or Bray, or Mordecai Ali Van Allen O'Shea,you're off to great places! Today is -”

“- your’day…” Ollie blurts, wriggling sideways to rest his head upon his favourite storyteller’s sternum. Snuggling into the crocheted blanket Oliver drapes around his slumping shoulders. “Don’ stop…” he mumbles then, with all the authority of a fifty-pound seven year old. “Un altro, per favore…”

Tonight, Shion had awoken and couldn’t tell the difference between the darkness of his bedroom from the endless night of the Correctional Facility. Nausea twisted through his stomach like a serpent. Shion had scrambled out of bed, throwing the covers down around Nezumi's ankles, and sprinted into the bathroom. The door banged behind him, and the sounds of his retching had echoed through the hall. None of it had disturbed Nezumi, a fact Shion was both grateful for and bitter about.

He’d been there for almost an hour now. The tremors hadn’t stopped. He’d emptied his stomach of the dinner Nezumi had helped him prepare, and when there was none of that left to expel, he’d been left lurching painfully and spitting up bile. Tears dripped down his cheeks, and Shion didn't think he could stop them.

Shion squeezed his eyes shut until he saw blotches of dark red and blue. Just a nightmare. It had only been a nightmare. One of many that plagued him when the sun went down. It had been months. Four months, specifically, since Nezumi had breezed back into his life. An entire season since Shion had dropped a plate of freshly made brownies and sprinted into those familiar arms, sobbing so hard he couldn’t even say Nezumi’s name properly.

The nightmares weren’t new.

But they weren’t any easier to deal with.

Shion breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth. Deep, steady breaths. Just like his mother had taught him the first time he’d woken her up. She’d come running to the sound of him screaming, finding him with the coverlet tangled around his legs, his hands clawing at his throat.

Trembling and weak, Shion eased back from the toilet bowl. He pressed his skull against the cool marble of the sink. He and Nezumi preferred to keep the windows cracked in the summer. Cool air breezed through the gap in the glass, caressing Shion’s cheek like an old lover. He flattened his hands on the floor, felt the tiles beneath his palms. Let the darkness brush over him and remind him that the nightmares were simply that―nightmares. Nothing set in reality. Nothing more than dark images conjured in his subconscious.

Shion carded his hands through his hair. His mouth tasted horrible. Now that he no longer felt he would be sick again―now that there was nothing else in his stomach to get rid of―he uncurled himself from the floor, flushed the toilet, and went to wash his face. He swished a bit of wintry mouthwash, wishing he could forget the sounds of women crying as their lives ended. Wished he could forget the scent of Nezumi’s coppery blood as a bullet shredded through his chest. Wished he could forget how Death tasted between his teeth.

Nezumi didn’t wake as Shion crept back into the bedroom. In the summer, he slept without a shirt. Stretched out on his stomach as he was, Shion could see the muscles in Nezumi’s back. The dark burn scars cut into his flesh, illuminated by the moonlight. His loose hair fanned over the pillow, tangled by the fingers Shion had run through it when they’d had sex earlier that evening.

Shion’s heart ached with love for him. He padded softly across the carpet. The sheets were cool, and Shion slipped in and curled up at Nezumi’s side. The sleeping pills worked, as Shion had intended. Nezumi’s breathing was deep and even. Sometimes Shion thought he heard a catch in it, but he knew if Nezumi was awake, he would say something.

Since returning, Nezumi had been vocal about his nightmares. He sometimes omitted details, but he did speak about them. He wrapped his arms around Shion and held him tight after the worst of them. He let Shion reposition him so that he was tucked beneath Shion’s chin and held tight until he could fall back asleep. If the nightmares were bad enough, sleep would evade him, but Nezumi would let Shion stay awake with him and tell him pointless stories until the sun crept through the windows.

Nezumi told Shion about his nightmares.

And Shion...didn’t.

It wasn’t for fear that Nezumi wouldn’t understand. He knew Nezumi would. Nezumi had been in the Correctional Facility with him that day. Nezumi had seen and heard the same things that kept Shion awake at night. Nezumi had done things that Shion still saw beneath his closed eyelids—things that, if he were being honest, frightened him.

Nezumi was, perhaps, the only one who could understand the horrible things Shion saw in his dreams. The only one who could empathize rather than sympathize because he had been there, too.

And that was why Shion wouldn’t burden Nezumi with his nightmares. Nezumi had his own dark thoughts. His own demons. The sleeping pills might have helped, but nothing worked all the time. On those rare, bad nights, neither of them slept through to morning. Shion had seen the dark shadows beneath Nezumi’s eyes that he’d had to conceal with pale foundation because he had a show or a late rehearsal that evening.

Nezumi had his own nightmares.

He didn’t need to be bothered with Shion’s, too.

Shion rolled onto his side and peered into Nezumi’s face. He slept with his head pillowed on his arms, most of his expression hidden aside from the dark curve of his eyelashes. Shion drew close to him, cold despite the summer heat wafting through the windows. He rested his hand on the small of Nezumi’s back, fingers overlapping the rough burn scars. Physical contact was better than simply holding himself through the night.

Part of him wanted to wake Nezumi up. Wanted to let every horrible image spill over his tongue like water and unburden himself. Nezumi would understand.

Shion knew that, if he were to shake Nezumi until he woke up, Nezumi would make everything better. Nezumi would pull Shion into his arms, silence the screams echoing in his skull, and grant him some peace.

But that would mean waking Nezumi. That would mean pulling Nezumi from whatever pleasant images his subconscious conjured. That would mean telling Nezumi that Shion had been suffering on his own for months.

And Shion just―couldn’t do that to Nezumi.

Shion lay beside Nezumi, motionless. He listened to the sounds of Nezumi’s deep breathing. He watched the gentle flickers of Nezumi’s eyelids, his dark eyelashes dusting against his cheekbones. Shion grounded himself by watching and feeling Nezumi beside him. He watched the boy he loved and tried to forget how it felt to watch the world around him shatter into pieces. How it felt to die. How it felt to lay in silence, in the darkness, and wonder whether he would ever be able to truly forget.