Elio loved Italy.

He loved the sun, he loved the peach and apricot trees just outside the house he called home, and he loved the quiet sense of solitude that allowed him to lay by the water and read one of his many books, or just sit in his dark swim trunks and listen to music that lifted his head to the clouds. He loved the empty openness of Italy, the few people who came by and ate with his family, the few friends he held near and dear to him, and the fact that nothing ever changed in his life. He liked eating peaches in bed and staring at the trees that looked to be waving back at him. His parents never made him talk to the Alpha's who would show up at the door with a bouquet of fresh daffodils, the flowers to his heart and bed, that would look positively horrendous on his desk. He would watch from his window as they left with anger in their eyes, the courage in their blood turning to liquid rage at the prospect of being denied the small pale Omega hiding in his room.

Elio didn't want to be mated.

He wanted to be loved, he wanted to be worshiped, he wanted an Alpha with a mind that could rival his own, and mind of actual intelligence. But maybe that was too much to ask, to much to ask for an Alpha who's plan wasn't be had between Elio's legs. Elio loved freedom, he loved peaches, and nothing could change that.

Oliver loved Italy.

It was everything the States weren't. It was alive, full of life and color and so many thing that Oliver had never felt, seen before. He had grown under the thumb of powerful parents who chose every move he made, every step he took. But he had chosen Italy, he had taken the choice from their hands and nothing could make him regret that. He wanted away from the Omega's throwing themselves at him, not wanting him for his mind but for his knot. He wanted an intellectual partner, one like him. He wanted to hold someone and be held, he wanted to give love and be loved in return. Was that too much to ask? But Italy held a prosperous future, new people, new fruit and far from what his parents wanted. He could explore his body, his sexuality, and maybe find someone who needed to be loved, and love.

And then he met the son of the Professor Perlman.

Elio.

1983

Somewhere In Italy

Elio lay back one his bed, head hung over the edge, eyes on the open window. The weather was nice this particular day, the sun wasn't too bright, the wind not to heavy, yet the trees still swayed in welcome at Elio's face. Some days he would even wave back, but seeing as Marzia was lying on the opposite bed, he decided against it, though he did still throw a smile at the open window, though that smile flew away with the breeze at the sound of his fathers car pulling up. He had left to pick up the American from the train station, though in Elio's opinion he could've walked, seeing as he was an Alpha.

His father did this every year. An American would come and live with them, stay in his bedroom, he would get the spare that was on the other side of the connecting bathroom, and help his father on his archeology work that Elio found to be most interesting. The American would usually be a Beta, always male. Elio remembered the one from last year who had blushed at the dinner table every time he caught Elio's eye. Elio had done his best to avoid him for his six weeks too long of a stay, he had been happy to see him go. But his father had changed this year, inviting an Alpha to help. Hopefully he wouldn't blush under Elio's stare.

Marzia's voice spoke from the other bed in Italian, "The American is here. Hopefully he is better than the last." Elio laughed at her words and stood from the bed, ignoring his mothers call to come downstairs in favor of looking out the window at the arriving American. He saw his father step from the car and walk around to help out the, what looked to be, extremely tall and bronze skinned American. He opened the car door and stood at his full height, much taller than the previous American. The American had blonde hair, a cloudy blue shirt and a pair of shorts that stopped mid thigh.

Elio felt his mouth water.

Marzia had stood up and was standing next to him, gazing at the American. A foreign, ugly sense of jealousy reared its head at his Beta friend Marzia, glad her attention was on the American walking across the grass with his father and not him, or she would see the look of disdain he was throwing at her. But it went away quickly as she moved away and walked to the door, calling his name to follow. He looked once more at the American and left the window, following Marzia down the winding steps, to formally meet him.

The American up close made Elio angry. He was a tall, stunning and everything Elio wasn't. The American wasn't a short, small, skinny, positively boney Omega who was only wanted for what resided between his legs. The American was tall, too tall, as tall as the peach trees outside his window, except he wasn't handing Elio a peach. His face was equivalent to the ones on the slideshows his father would show in the library when prattling on about the Adonis like bodies of the lost statues.

He was large, larger than anyone in their little town, and had a smile that radiated brighter than the sun hidden behind the light blue clouds. Elio noticed his smile curved up, showing off his perfect American teeth. The light blue shirt he was wearing hid his firm muscles, but the top undone button showed off a few strands of chest hair that Elio wanted to rip out and smell. He wondered if they smelled like the natural muskiness he was born with or the cologne he had put on in the morning. His legs were long, long as a tree branch, and had a fine covering of blonde hair, a contrast to Elio's bare legs. Even his shoe clad feet made Elio hate him. Elio decided in that moment, as the American looked him in the eyes and smiled that stupid sun-bright smile.

He hated the American.

"Hey. I'm Oliver."

Elio forced a smile at the American, Oliver, and held his hand out for a shake, but nearly gasped when he was pulled into a hug, his nose hitting Oliver's shirt clad chest. The hug lasted longer than any other he had ever had, but maybe that was just an American thing. His mothers Italian words brought him back to the earth and he lightly pushed himself away from Oliver, smiling and asking if he needed help with his bags, which Oliver responded with a smile. He grabbed the suitcase as he bid Marzia farewell, she had gotten lucky and had bid farewell to his family, Oliver included. He glared at her retreating back and lugged the suitcases upstairs, stepping into his bedroom, now Oliver's bedroom, and setting down the suitcase with a loud thump. He moved around picking up stray clothes and knickknacks, throwing them in the hamper as he spoke.

"So this is your new room. The bathroom is right here and I'm just on the other side of it so we'll be sharing. Mafalda does laundry so leave it in the hamper and breakfast is eaten outside, you'll hear a bell around 5, that' s the dinner bell." Elio had straightened up the room and had turned to make sure the American was listening. Which he was, sort of.

Oliver was looking around the room, Elio noticed his eyes strayed to the window with the waving peach trees that he would miss heavily, hoping the trees wouldn't wave to Oliver. He saw Oliver's eyes dart to the bathroom, to the hamper half full of Elio's clothes, and to the two beds. He took two long strides forward and fell into the bed that just ten minutes ago Elio had been resting on. Elio heard him take a deep inhale and cuddle into the yellow sheets.

Elio waited a moment to see if the American was going to get up and do anything, but the soft snores prompted Elio to walk through the bathroom to his new room. He sat on the bed and looked out of the open window, smiling at the waving apricot trees, waving back. The world looked different from this window, Elio noticed, the sky looked darker and there were more trees. He hoped the trees back at his window wouldn't miss him.

The sound of the bell ringing rang through the house and brought Elio back from the music he had been composing. He stood and stretched, noticing that hours had flew by faster than he thought. He walked through the bathroom and stopped at the doorway of the American's room, sighing at the sleeping figure on the bed. He had moved, his head was now on the pillow and one of his hands was fisted under it. Elio walked over to his snoozing form and poked the hard shoulder, hoping that he would wake up fairly quickly. But alas, the American remained snoring. He huffed and walked to the desk, grabbing one of his heavier books and throwing it on the floor, smiling when the American shot awake.

"Wha- Wha…"

"I told you earlier, that bell means dinner's ready. Come downstairs." Oliver groaned and turned over, hand moving and coming out from under the pillow, and Elio turned his head at the sight of some type of fabric clenched between his fists.

"Cover for me. I owe you one." Oliver turned once more and his seemingly loud snoring resumed. Elio was tempted to hit him with the book that was lying on the floor, but found that type of anger was in poor taste. Maybe he would spit in his apricot juice in this morning. He walked from the room, eyeing the pile of laundry, raising an eyebrow because he could've sworn the last thing he threw onto the pile was a pair of blue boxers that seemed to have disappeared. He shrugged it off and went to tell his mother that the American was sleeping.

And throughout dinner his mind did not stray from the American in his bed, nor did his eyes drift from the open window nor the swaying trees that looked to be reaching for the slumbering American. He was silent through dinner, not having much to say, still kissing Mafalda's cheek when she served and cleaned the table. He would've gone out, maybe out with Marzia to go to the lake, get his mind off the American. But he didn't want to. He bid his mother and father goodnight, a kiss on their cheeks, and walked to his bedroom, not his actual one for the American was sleeping there. He sat on his bed and sighed a heavy sigh. What was wrong with him? Why was he thinking about the American two rooms away, who was sleeping where he slept, lying where he lied.

A heat through his skin made him angry, the heat made him want to curse at the American with every curse he knew until his throat was in pain. The American was making his question if he wanted to go out, question his own emotions about the stupid blonde haired American. He hated the American. He hated the American. But fuck,

He hated Oliver.

But as he touched himself that night, He loved Oliver.