Elippo Fic - Blog Posts

At night, Elia dreams of Filippo.

It’s weird, because he’s been obsessed with girls before, absolutely, so it’s not like infatuation is a new thing for him. But never has Elia dreamt with such vivid clarity and an undertone of such desperate want, longing, for someone before.

He dreams of lean abs painted like a statue of ancient Rome. He dreams of corded muscles tensing and relaxing as long fingers flick the end of a cigarette. He dreams of bleached curls and dark eye lashes; of freckles like constellations on smooth tan skin. 

He dreams of gasps and moans and whispers of “please” and “more” and “god don’t stop.” He dreams of soothing touches and bruise-educing grips; of laughter and the morning sunlight gleaming off of espresso eyes still hazy from a night of pleasure and sleep.

But Elia doesn’t dream reality. 

He doesn’t dream the careful way in which his eyes never fail to look out for Filippo across a rooftop party composed of mutual friends. He doesn’t dream of their eyes meeting and holding for an eternity, only for Filippo’s to eventually trail away when the disappointment that Elia can’t quite bring himself to make the first move after their night together weeks ago sets in. He doesn’t dream of Marti’s considering looks, or Gio’s pursed lips, or the way Luca seems oblivious to it all. 

(It’s not the boy thing, guys, it’s not that. I’m not ashamed, it’s just complicated.)

He doesn’t dream of his father slamming a Bible down at the dinner table in front of him, repeating over and over that the Santini family are good Catholics, great ones, and that good Catholic boys marry good Catholic girls and that there are no exceptions. 

It wouldn’t be hard to be a good Catholic boy. Elia likes girls without trying; he likes curves and giggles and the smell of perfume. 

But more than he likes girls right now, Elia likes Filippo.

Elia wants Filippo.

And Elia is nothing if not selfish.

So he looks up at the dark ceiling, watching the way shadows flicker as cars pass by. Then he glances towards his bedside table.

02:43

To Filippo Sava: can I come over?

I was wondering if you were gonna still post the continuation of that Elippo fic ? No pressure / not trying to rush , just wanna make sure I don’t miss it if you’re still planning on posting it

I know! We had some minor delays on account of studying and life, but here go with the continuation of THIS ELIPPO FIC.

——-

Filippo feels…

Well Filippo doesn’t really know if he’s felt much of anything recently. 

The first week– when Elia left him alone in his apartment with a half-eaten, meticulously chosen meal and a half-empty bottle of wine– is kind of a blur. 

He and Elia had been apart for longer than a week when they were whatever. Granted, not much recently, but one week wasn’t such a stress. But then the next week hit and Filippo just felt weird. Like he’d see something in the park or hear a funny joke and his thumb would immediately flit to Elia’s contact icon to…

To what? Tell him? Let him know that he was thinking about him? To want to share bits of his day with him?

Whatever it was, he couldn’t do that anymore. Which was… whatever. It was fine– it was–it was Elia’s choice because he wanted more than Filippo was willing to give.

It was fine. 

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📂📂📂📂idc what u write about i just want some elippo angst !! cause i love being in pain!

The first time Elia and Filippo break up, it’s about ten months into their.. whatever. The whatever is because Filippo absolutely refuses to label what they have as a relationship or a friendship or even a hookup-manship. Elia exists solely as his… well as Elia. And he’s content with the whatever it is, as it stands. No rules, no exclusivity, nothing to add weight to the idea of permanence, of ownership. He’s perfectly content to ride out their intense connection for as long as they can as is.

Elia thought he was fine with that for a long time. He was delighted that he could have Filippo whenever he wanted, but also felt no pressure to refrain from experimenting, to see and flirt and kiss pretty girls and pretty boys whenever he wanted. It also didn’t hurt that often he and Filippo were in it together, pointing out pretty young things for the other to seduce. A sort of modern romantic game.

But then the weeks and months pass, and Elia is now spending more time in Filippo’s bed than his own. His phone is now full of silly pictures of Filippo and texts to Filippo and texts about Filippo and well-

Elia is tired of this nebulous thing. 

It’s easy to him. He wants Filippo and he hasn’t wanted anyone else for a long time. (To be quite honest, he doesn’t think that he’s ever really wanted anyone else since meeting him.)

So he begins to broach the topic of a real, real relationship. First as a joke when they’re both drunk off their asses and climbing each other on the bed (”just think, this could be yours and only yours… what do you say?”) The next time is over a random text conversation (”I was thinking we could do like a couples vacation with Martinico?”) 

Finally, Elia brings out the big guns. He dresses nicely and cooks a good dinner with all of Filippo’s favorite things (things he knows because believe it or not, he knows almost everything about Filippo and he knows Filippo knows all of this about him too). He opens wine and lets is breathe and greets a wary Filippo with a kiss when he walks through the door.

It takes almost every ounce of courage in Elia to do it. To air all of his wants and dreams and hopes for them as a couple on the table. To look intimidating, strong Filippo in the eye and know that he might be costing himself the greatest relationship he’s ever had. But he does it because he knows that they could be so much more than they are. The same, but stronger. Better. 

So he lays it all out. 

And Filippo remains silent. Wine glass clenched in his hands, coffee-brown eyes averted. When he finally does speak, his voice is hoarse and simple, “I can’t… I can’t do this. We work just how we are. Don’t complicate things. Please, Elia. Just leave it alone.”

Elia thinks he can hear his heart actually break. He wonders if Filippo can hear it too. 

But the thing is, he loves Filippo more than he ever thought he could love anyone, but he also knows that he can’t do this anymore. He can’t bask in this relationship, immerse himself in this love, if Filippo already had one foot out the door.

So Elia sniffs, and gently gets up from the table and walks out the door. 

Request: Can you write an Elippo fic where Elia is in Filippo’s room and he doesn’t know the song (last clip) and Filippo was like HOW DARE YOU NOT KNOW RAP FUTURISTICO and so he start playing it out loud and sing it to Elia doing dumb moves and at “tranne te” part screaming at his face and then kiss him like the Patatine e Marmellata clip?

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Eleonora sighed at the mess on the counter, the espresso machine that hadn’t been cleaned in days. When Eleonora had children of her own, they would certainly learn how to clean up after themselves. Not that Filippo was her child, but it certainly felt that way sometimes.

Setting about cleaning up, Eleonora dumped the dishes in the sink, wiping down the countertop and grimacing at the coffee stains on the tile.

“Oh.” A surprised voice behind her made Eleonora pause, glancing at the doorway to find an awkward-looking Elia wearing only a pair of boxer shorts and a shirt Eleonora knew was one of Filippo’s. “I didn’t think you’d be up.”

Shoving away her surprise at finding Elia in her apartment at nine in the morning, Eleonora shook her head.

“It’s after nine,” she said instead, crossing her arms and leaning back against the counter as Elia lingered in the doorway.

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