#zeffirelli fluff

[growup-thatbeautiful]

Hi love, could you do Zeffirelli writing you a love letter please?

ooooh, i love this idea! i took a short brake from all the wonderful song requests to write this lol.

———————

he sits down at his desk, cigarette in one hand and coffee with cream and sugar in the other. there’s already paper on his desk. it’s been sitting out for a few days, begging for him to write to you.

he starts his letter.

mon amor,

the revolution is going well. i think there’s a chance that we might come out on top of this.

i wish that you were here to see it. i know that you would be if you could, and i am happy that you got such a good opportunity as a journalist. ms. krememtz really took to you when she came in town. i’m glad she did. you deserve all of the opportunities.

there’s not a lot of news here. it snowed the other day, and everyone took a break from fighting to look at the sky. it seemed like something that you would like. it really was a beautiful moment.

there are a lot of things here that remind me of you. one is, of course, the revolution. when we aren’t fighting with each other it seems like we make a good team. i think we’re making a real difference.

i’m also reminded of you all the time whenever a bad situation happens. i know how that sounds, but you were always so good at dealing with things like that. you would know all the right things to say. that’s why your so far away, if you think about it. weird how that worked out.

tell me all the details about your new life. is there a cafe that’s as good as the one here? (don’t answer that). have you met a charming, high-class, french man with messier hair than me? (don’t answer that either). please tell me all about the charms of life as an established writer.

note, please don’t take this as a fact that i don’t miss you. i miss you like crazy, and i cannot wait to see you, whenever that should happen. i am hopeful it is soon.

all the love in the world,

zeffirelli

he takes a long drag of his cigarette and sets the letter down. he folds it neatly in half, and looks around until he finds a envelope to put it in. last minute, he adds the petals of a rose that was sitting in a vase by his bed.

it’s sappy, but he knows that you���ll like it.

on the other side of the country, you receive his letter. the rose petal floats to the floor, unseen in your haste to read his letter. his messy handwriting looks like home.

the letter, once read, goes in it’s place tacked on the wall with everything else he’s written to you. the rose petal goes into a small, clear vial that you hang around your neck.

[nerianasims]

Billboard #1s 1969

Under the cut.

Tommy James And The Shondells – “Crimson And Clover” -- February 1, 1969

There are barely any lyrics to this thing, and they don't make any sense. Why crimson and clover over and over? And over and over and over and someone make it stop. Also it's musically attempting to be interesting and failing miserably for me. This song is apparently a critical darling these days. I don't get it. It bores and irritates me.

Sly & The Family Stone – “Everyday People” -- February 15, 1969

A funk song about how people are bad at accepting outward differences, and that we should stop with that nonsense. With a line about "For bein' such a rich one that will not help the poor one" as well. It's got a lot of oomph and musical interest, and it's a sentiment that people will probably always need to hear. Great song.

Tommy Roe – “Dizzy” -- March 15, 1969

The music of this song, with the constant key changes, does make me feel dizzy. They lyrics are the normal stuff about wanting a girl ever since the narrator saw her, except for this line: "I want you for my sweet pet." Um, what? That's off even for the day. Not something I like.

The 5th Dimension – “Aquarius/Let The Sunshine In” -- April 12, 1969

Was this song taken seriously at the time? The tune is a good Broadway show-stopper, but the lyrics are just... seriously? "Mystic crystal liberation." And the "let the sunshine in" part is unbearably repetitive.

The Beatles – “Get Back” (Feat. Billy Preston) -- May 24, 1969

Billy Preston injected some needed inspiration back into The Beatles. The lyrics are pretty much nonsense. It's an okay Beatles song but with a great bassline.

Henry Mancini – “Love Theme From Romeo And Juliet“ -- June 28, 1969

We watched Franco Zeffirelli’s version of Romeo And Juliet in high school, with one caveat: The geometry teacher/boys' swim team coach had recorded a sunset over the football field over the part of the balcony love scene where they get all hot and heavy, apparently thinking it was just too much for 13 and 14 year olds. They left the sound though. Which made it way dirtier than it would have been with the images still there. So anything associated with that movie is hilarious to me. This is a Henry Mancini instrumental, which means it's good and I really shouldn't be cackling.

Zager & Evans – “In The Year 2525″ -- July 12, 1969

On a musical level, I hate this. It's a tidge too slow, it's a lot too bland, and something about the far future should sound futuristic, and this doesn't at all. Also the lyrics are dumb. It's not all of us who have fucked up the environment; it's the powerful. And I refuse to be morally scolded by someone who says in total seriousness, "In the year 4545/ You ain't gonna need your teeth, won't need your eyes/ You won't find a thing to chew." Dull and annoying.

The Rolling Stones – “Honky Tonk Women” -- August 23, 1969

The Rolling Stones are English. They don't know honky tonks. But then they sort of do. Music, alcohol, and sex, not exactly complicated and pretty universal. In the song, Mick's supposedly trying to fuck and drug his way out of heartbreak, and not just with women. There's a verse about "charming" sailors in Paris. It's actually still hard to find the whole thing online even today, but that's the version on the "Get Yer Ya-Ya's Out!" album. The single version that became the hit doesn't have that verse, of course. Anyway, it's a good party song.

The Archies – “Sugar, Sugar” -- September 20, 1969

It's a song for a cartoon. It's the most bubblegum of bubblegum pop. I hate it.

The Temptations – “I Can’t Get Next To You” -- October 18, 1969

The Temptations can do absolutely anything, such as make ships sail on dry land, but they can't get next to you. It's like a god singing to a goddess. Motown could do that. Great song.

Elvis Presley – “Suspicious Minds” -- November 1, 1969

Elvis has entered his Vegas era. The rhinestone suits, sunglasses, all of that. But of course he pulled it off. In the song, Elvis complains to you about how you're so suspicious, and it's hurting him, but he can't walk out because he loves you too much. The way he sings it, though: Bullshit. He knows it's bullshit, you know it's bullshit. Dude's cheating. I mean, he's Elvis, of course he's cheating. He's putting everything into a performance to keep you, though, even though he knows that you know he's lying. And by the end, I'm thinking it would be better to have a guy with that much charisma and talent who cheats on you than some nothing schlub who's faithful only because no other woman would have him.

The 5th Dimension – “Wedding Bell Blues” -- November 8, 1969

This kind of song is why I really need to keep an airplane barf bag by my desk. The narrator's whining about how she loves this dumbass "Bill" so much, and has done everything for him, but he still hasn't proposed, so "Marry me Bill." If the lyrics were acceptable, I'd say the song was a nice bit of pop fluff. The lyrics are not acceptable. Also I have an uncle named "Bill" AND my mother's husband is named "Bill" and I just cannot.

The Beatles – “Come Together” -- November 29, 1969

The bassline is this song, and damn it's a good one. Apparently this song's lyrics confused people so much at the time, people thought it meant Paul was dead. I have no idea how they got to that. I thought it was about Jesus, or a Jesus type. Or something. I dunno, it doesn't matter, the riffs are the point. The Beatles were breaking up, but this was one hell of a way to go out.

Steam – “Na Na Hey Hey Kiss Him Goodbye” -- December 6, 1969

So this is apparently supposed to be about a man trying to get you to leave another man because he'll never love you the way the narrator will. But I can't hear it as anything other than a sports chant. I do not advise trying to listen to the full four minutes.

Peter, Paul & Mary – “Leaving On A Jet Plane” -- December 20, 1969

"I'm leavin' on a jet plane/ Don't know when I'll be back again/ Oh, babe, I hate to go." This song was originally intended to be about a traveling singer who'd been unfaithful a lot. But authorial intent doesn't matter. It became about the Vietnam War. And as such, it's heartrending.

Diana Ross & The Supremes – “Someday We’ll Be Together” -- December 27, 1969

According to the lyrics, this is about the narrator regretting having broken up with her boyfriend, and promising that someday they'll be together again. But authorial intent doesn't matter. And hearing this during a pandemic which is keeping everyone apart, well. Rather changes things.

BEST OF 1969: "Come Together"  WORST OF 1969: "Sugar, Sugar"

[growup-thatbeautiful]

Im not sure if requests are open but sending one anyway (if youre not accepting im sorry pls trash this!) But if you are, how about a zeffirelli x reader where reader always beats him in chess? Like y/n is super good but also our boy zeffy gets distracted just looking at y/n when she's thinking? 👉👈🥺

NONNIE I SAW THIS AND HAD TO SCREAM INTO A PILLOW THIS IS SO SWEET <333333

please tell me it’s not to obvious that i know nothing about chess

Pretty

“Zeffirelli, it’s your turn,” you say. There’s only so much stating that you can reasonably tolerate. And he’s been staring for the whole game.

Not that that’s unusual at all. In fact, most of the time he’s staring at you. He makes a move, and you’re quick to make your next one, taking one of his knights.

“You know, usually you make it harder for me to beat you than this. It’s almost like there’s something distracting you,” you say lightly, playing with the ends of your hair in the way you know drives him crazy. If he notices, he tries to cover it up with a cough.

You spin one of his chess pieces in between your fingers, twisting it around. It’s a habit you just can’t seem to get rid of. You look up as discreetly as possible, noticing that Zeffirelli is yet again staring at you. He’s got that look in his eyes, the one that shows you how much he loves you. You have no resistance to that look. You hope you never do.

“I never get distracted,” he says. You motion for him to move, which he does. This time, you have to think about what to do next.

“Are you going to make your move, flower?” he teases, raising his eyebrows. You flip him off with on hand and play your turn. Once you’ve gone, Zeffirelli doesn’t immediately make his move, opting to look at you a little while longer, the moving chess piece between your fingers.

“Come on, Zeff, we don’t have all day. I distinctly remember plans for a movie night and promises for popcorn.”

“I’m only going to do that if you stop judging me for getting lost in your beauty,” he says, moving his piece, which, again, you take.

“Sap,” you say.

“Only for you,” he replies with a grin.

“I definitely know that’s not true. You’re like this to everyone. Even that dying flower outside your window.”

“Darlene is a beautiful soul,” he defends. “But I don’t stare at her while I lose at chess. Which, by the way, doesn’t happen normally. You’re too distracting,” he whines.

“Not my fault,” you say. “And, checkmate. Good luck getting out of this one.”

“I give up,” he says, putting his head in his hands. “I’m never going to beat you. I’ve never lost to someone as must as I’ve lost to you.”

“Poor baby,” you laugh, coming around to his side of the table and ruffling his hair. “I won’t tell anyone that you keep losing to me. I will tell absolutely everyone about Darlene, though.”

“When did you start doing that thing?” Zeffirelli asks, going into the kitchen to make tea, kissing your cheek when he passes by.

“What thing?” You follow him into the kitchen and sit on the island.

“The thing with the chess piece.” He does a twirling motion and a sound effect, making you laugh. “You know.”

“Oh I don’t even know when it started. I just always have to have something in motion in order to help me think. It’s better than chewing my nails or scratching my skin.”

“So if I take your chess pieces away, you won’t win?” he asks, as evil a grin he can possibly have on his face.

“Keep your evil plans to yourself, Romeo. It doesn’t really work if you tell me.”

“It’ll work. I’ll distract you with my outstanding dancing.” As an example, he pulls you close to him and waltzes you across the tiles.

“You know, you may be terrible at chess against me, but you make me laugh, Zeffirelli B.”

“I am not terrible at chess!“ he exclaims, spinning you. “I’m just terrible at keeping my eyes off you.”

[growup-thatbeautiful]

If you are not fed up with the marriage theme yet, could you write something about what the first morning as a married couple would be like with Zeffirelli, please? You write him so well.

i am not! and based on the request, sounds like you want an actual fic for this one lollll. good thing i was in the mood :) and thank you! <33 i love writing him so much, it’s a problem

Sunlight

You wake up slowly, beams of morning light streaming in. There’s a thick blanket covering you, as well as the arm of your husband, Zeffirelli.

You look over at him, seeing him asleep, normally wild hair somehow even wilder than usual. He’s facing you, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks, deep breaths in a soothing rhythm. Even in sleep, he’s the most pretty man you’ve ever seen.

Pretty is one of many word words that come to mind when describing his beauty. Others filter through your mind. Angelic. Stunning. Elegant. And, last of all, yours.

It still hasn’t sunken in that you’re married to him. It all seems to be a dream, the past few days-no, weeks-passing in a blur of happiness and dancing memories. Just thinking about them make you grin widely.

You turn over onto your side, truly facing your husband. The hand that isn’t wrapped around you is curled under his head, and you take it into your hand, kissing his knuckles gently. With your other hand you cup his face gently, tracing your fingers across his features. You mind idly drifts in the morning haze.

Your first thought is that Zeffirelli has given you so much joy. Everything he does, he does with you in mind. He’s never selfish, something that you’ve been working on. He needs to know that he’s worth giving himself attention, not just others. Being selfless can be a good thing, but, like everything else, it’s only good in moderation.

The way he dotes on you is like first-nature to him. He’s always making sure that you’re okay, asking you questions to the point of annoyance. Which, of course, only lasts about thirty seconds before you can’t keep your anger in.

There’s never a moment when you feel unseen in his presence. You try to return that affection to him, showing him that he means just as much to you as you mean to him. You know very well that people are going to start finding it unacceptable at some point, a married couple being so romantic all the time, but you don’t plan on stopping if ever. If the world is intent on seeing romance as something for children and fools, you’re happy to be part of them. It’s better than becoming jaded.

Your mind shifts to last night. You left the wedding and came straight to Verona, the place of your honeymoon. Your wedding dress is hanging over the chair, heavily fabric flowing across the arms.

Zeffirelli had insisted that he carry you over the threshold of the door. You had rolled your eyes and told him that this wasn’t even your house so it wouldn’t count, but he said that it didn’t matter. He would do it here and then he would carry you home.

After that, he had taken you to this room and whispered beautiful words into your skin, your soul. And when that stopped being enough, they turned into kisses, which turned into something more heated. His name fell from your lips as a plea, a chant, a prayer.

“What are you thinking about, ma femme?” Zeffirelli says groggily, pulling you closer to him.

“My husband,” you answer honestly. “I still can’t believe that I get to call you that.”

“If rolls of the tounge, doesn’t it?” he says softly, encasing you in his warmth with his arms.

“My wife.” He kisses you on the cheek gently, following the map of your face with his finger.

“My wife.” He kisses each of your eyelids and pulls you ever closer.

“My wife.” He leans his forehead against yours and looks into your eyes.

“My husband.”

[growup-thatbeautiful]

You write Zeffirelli better than anyone! all your stuff on him makes me so soft lol. Could you do an imagine/headcannon where he proposes? Thank you 😊

oooooo yes! thank you for asking :)) i totally didn’t see this and kept missing it i’m so sorry

please leave comments, tags, or just come scream at me about it!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

zeffirelli is nervous about something. you can tell the moment he picks you up for your date, the stars and streetlights shrinking behind his profile against your door.

he got you pink roses, not something unusual for him to do but definitely not casual. they’re tied with a yellow ribbon in a neat bow that means he definitely didn’t do it.

he’s wearing a nice suit jacket instead of his school one, and his hair is…well he looks nice. he greets you with the usual kiss and proclamation of “you look beautiful today,” and takes your hand without a word, leading you to the firescape of your apartment. his timing is perfect, as usual, and the stars shine against the river, picturesque, out of a fairy tale book.

“i realized that for all the time we’ve spend together, we haven’t yet looked at the stars.” you don’t reply, but lean your head against his shoulders. he takes his hand in yours and kisses your knuckles gently.

“get your shoes on, we have somewhere to go,” he whispers into the night, standing up and kissing your forehead.

you shake your head, amused, and do what he says. pulling on your boots, he puts a hat on your head and ruffles your hair. you stick your tongue out at him.

he walks you to one of the bridges across the river. it’s your favorite one, covered in twisting ivy and blooming white flowers. the summer air drifts across you, bringing the smell of blossoms and night air.

you lean against the rail, the bricks cool under your hands. a petals blows away and floats on the water, rippling the stars.

he’s leaning beside you on the bridge one moment, then the next he’s down on one knee, looking up at you with his heart on his sleeve. his hair falls wildly in from of his eyes, a curtain that does nothing to hide his emotions. they’re written in his posture, his hands, his soul.

even if you couldn’t read him like an open book, his words say it all. “i’m better at speaking when things are written out in front of me, so i wrote down what i was going to say right now the second time i met you. i couldn’t help it.”

“i have loved you my whole life. i think i knew it before i even met you, that you were the one i was waiting for. the one i dreamed i would fall in love with as a kid. the one with a laugh that could make me melt into the floor and with eyes that laugh along with you.”

“there is never a moment when i don’t want to be with you, and even when i’m angry at you i’m still more in love than i ever have been before. every day that i see you you become more dear to me, and i want that to continue for my whole life.”

“my mother gave me my choice of my grandmothers rings the first time i mentioned you. she said that she could see it in my eyes that i was going to marry you. i chose this one.” you look down in between his fingers, where a beautiful ring is held. the band is a simple silver, growing with the deep green jewel that glistens with moonlight. the two green gems are shaped like leafs, and in the middle is a dark red circular jewel, engraved as a rose.

“it’s beautiful,” you whisper, not wanting to break the moment.

“will you wear it?“ he asks nervously.

“i will.” you reply.

“ma rose por toujours.” he says with awe, slipping it into your finger before standing up and spinning you around and kissing you.

you hold him back tightly, his rose forever more.

[growup-thatbeautiful]

Can we get some headcanons about Zeffirelli's wedding, please?🥺

you may, lovely <33333 (ooooh featuring my poetry for the first (??) time. i’m tricking y’all into reading it ha

Zeffirelli’s wedding

my very first thought was FLOWERS

then i thought of winter weddings and how poetic that would be

he would do whatever you want, and you would do whatever he wants

so you chose to get married just as fast as you can and still make it as perfect as you can

it ends up being a winter wedding anyway because that time works out the best

so dried flowers! those are so pretty too and super poetic

you’ve kept all the flowers he’s given you on dates and have them drying out in a closet just in case

and now you have something to do with them. so, you spend a day with dried flowers and newspapers strewn across the floor, zeffirelli sitting back as you create yourself a bouquet

what was this about again? oh yeah, a wedding

anyway, it’s a winter wedding

you have the ceremony inside because it’s freezing, but take some pictures outside

the snow stands out against his suit and it falls into you hair. they’re your favorite pictures of the two of you and they reside on your bedside table

the ceremony itself is fairly small and held somewhere sentimental to the two of you

it’s decorated simply with draping fabrics and candles, intimate and charmingly subtle

you’re wearing a wedding dress that makes you feel like a princess, makes you feel absolutely stunning

his mother insisted that you follow the “something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue” rule

you have a veil and a pearled headpiece that was your mothers for something borrowed

your something new is the dress itself

something blue is a sapphire necklace Zeffirelli gave you for your first year anniversary

and something old is his engagement ring, a family ring that he proposed to you with

his family, your family, and close friends are pretty much the only ones in attendance

which means that you get to read the vows you wrote for him and the ones he wrote for you in front of the people who care most about you

dried petals on the trail of your dress, you go first. “zeffirelli, my heart, i cannot imagine anything more important to me than you are. in this moment and so many like it, you have taken every thought in my head and turned it into something warm and something that feels more like home than i can ever remember. not since i was a little kid have i been able to appreciate my existence as i do when i’m with you. i want to be with you forever, and when that ends i’ll keep searching, a lost soul in the darkness, because i’ll know that your light will always find its way home to me.”

then his vows. “lapine, i am convinced that the moment i met you, i finally knew what the rest of my life would look like. i know that you’ll be there in the end, smiling that smile of yours and taking my hand into your own. i have visions of us laughing and crying, dancing and fighting. i knew when i saw you that i had to do everything in my power to make these things come true, the good and the bad. luckily for me, you felt the same way. mon amour, i cannot wait to see what the future holds for us.”

“maybe i’m just a shitty writer

with to many dreams of things that won’t ever happen,

and hopes of places i won’t see,

places i can’t see.

but even if i am just a shitty writer,

you still read my shit,

and tell me that it’s good,

and tell me to keep going,

to write more.

i keep the journal besides my bed,

where i write ideas that i come up with,

in the middle of the night,

so i can write about them tomorrow.

i don’t know what’s going to happen to me,

i don’t know who i’ll

(inevitably)

fall in love with,

if they’ll be nice to me,

if there will be passion,

if i’ll even like being around them,

but i know i’ll write about it,

and i’ll keep the words in my mind,

waiting for a chance to show you.

maybe i’ll end up famous,

for the words i weave,

and the thoughts i create,

and maybe people will know my name,

but whatever happens,

i’ll still send you my shitty poems.

just so i can hear you say you like it.”

“i wrote this poem the day we met. i knew i would fall in love with you. i already had. you support me and hold me up when i can’t do the same for myself. somehow, you’re exactly what i’ve always needed. i love you.“

then you would get the rings from their place tied to the ribbon on your flower bouquet and skip them on each other’s fingers

“you may kiss the bride.”

“i’ve waited my whole life to hear that,” zeffirelli says. and then kisses you.

his smile when you pull apart is absolutely radiant and completely contagious

[growup-thatbeautiful]

Hello love! You said you wanted some comments on your last post so here’s a few…

Even though zafarelli’s death makes me horribly sad, I don’t hate it because you write him so well. You really capture what he’s probably thinking (like the long commute being a romantic act of love) and how he deeply understands the world. I like when you add French because it makes your writing of him more true. You do a great job of writing characters emotions, by showing them instead of telling them. The little details like sore muscles and carpets of pamphlets add a lot to making the work seem like that of a mature writer! Great work :)

p.s. do you think we could get a little fluff with him so I can stop crying & pretend he lives lol

you can definitely get some fluff, loves <33333 sorry for the angst loll. i decided to write love at first sight

~~~~~~~~~~~

if a stranger asked you when you fell in love with zeffirelli, would would weave an elaborate tale based on a weekend you spend with him in paris on your two-month anniversary. something that did, in fact happen, and you were definitely in love throughout the trip.

however, it’s not true. that’s not when you fell in love with him. no, that would make things too easy.

you fell in love with zeffirelli the very first time you say him. he was leaning against the jukebox, his head tilted back towards the light, a cigarette in his hand. smoke was obscuring his face, causing swirling lines and lots of attention to his hands. vaguely you had recognized them as artists hands.

when the smoke cleared, you couldn’t breathe. you had been working in the cafe, and hadn’t noticed him until now, mercifully at the end of your shift. you’re pretty sure you actually stopped in your tracks, turned at am awkward angle and staring at him. you were shortly forced out of the trance by someone calling your name, and you stumbled through the rest of the night. thoughts of him filtered through your mind, determined that he was special, but knowing you wouldn’t go up and talk to him. not like this, in your horribly fitting work clothes and smelling like too-strong coffee.

zeffirelli had stayed late to talk to you, ordering way to many caffeinated drinks for this time of night and filling an ashtray with his cigarette. he sat behind the counter, not letting it separate you in the slightest.

later, he told you that he fell in love the same way. predictable, because you two are so similar. he saw you sooner than you saw him, and he knew immediately that he needed to know you better. unlike you, he had friends that night to push him on. they forced him to stay late, and you thank them in your head every day for it.

you remember every detail about that night, from the warm summer wind to the burnt-out streetlight he kissed you under. it’s engraved on your heart in a special place, a section deserved of only to truest love and happiest memories. you know the exact spot where his hand grazed yours, marked in your mind with a bright red x. you remember where he was standing when you made him laugh and spill his drink, and you can’t pass by the spot where he called you beautiful without reliving that night in your mind.

the night had set in motion years of love and laughter. so many more of those treasured moments of calmness in the chaotic world that seems to revolve around meeting him.

that’s when you fell in love with zeffirelli.

[growup-thatbeautiful]

love for the poets

Zeffirelli x reader ficlet

warnings: light cussing, a little bit of pining, kissing,

a/n: i’m in love with Zeffirelli from French Dispatch. i mean how did anyone expect me not to obsess over him. cute, nerdy, french, poet boy. come on

disclaimer: you don’t have to have seen French Dispatch read this, and there aren’t any spoilers. you could pretty much imagine it as any of his characters, especially Laurie.

you know each other from school and are really close friends. you have been ever since you first met, immediately hitting it off. you run in the same circles and spend all of your time together.

you help him write the manifesto and just write whatever you want with him

you two are completely oblivious to each other’s feelings, as per the trope gods.

he buys you flowers all the time and writes you poems daily

you take him out to coffee and write him letters and poems back. of course, you keep the love poems deep in your desk drawer.

“seriously, we’re just friends doing normal friend things.” yeah, right.

then, like a love story, everything changes one night.

you’re at his parents house for dinner, it being a normal occurrence for them to have you over. you’ve been close with them ever since you met him. they are, for some reason, convinced that you’re a good influence.

the food has been eaten and you’re all sitting in the sitting room, talking lightly and drinking tea. not Zeffirelli, though. you know for a fact he hates the stuff.

after a while, his parents decide to go to bed, kissing him goodnight on the cheek and walking quietly up the stairs to their room.

he moves to lay dramatically beside you on the couch once he hears their door shut and the light under the crack go dark. as an instinct, you play with his wild hair mindlessly

“have you even been in love?” he asks, staring at the ceiling

“oui. is this about that woman? your parents friend?” you reply, closing your eyes and hoping he doesn’t notice.

“no. i don’t love her. she’s just…”

“easy?” you offer.

“yes. we don’t talk about our feelings. she helps me write.”

“i help you write too.” it’s out of your mouth before you can stop it.

“that’s different. you make it more poetic. she makes it sensible.”

“in the end they are the same, no?” you say.

“depends on who you ask. she would disagree.” he plays with the sleeve of his shirt.

“good thing you don’t love her then. your poetic ideals are important to you.”

all you get is a low hum in response. then, “you didn’t tell me who you were in love with.”

“you didn’t ask, Zeffirelli.”

“i am now. who were they? tell me who worked their way into your heart, ma souris.”

“d’accord, if you must know. i never told him. he still doesn’t know, actually. he’s very pretty. poetic too. doesn’t stand down for anyone. he has an appreciation for beautiful things and he is a complete ass at times. when i’m around him i feel like i’m in one of my love poems.”

“why have you not told him? surely no one would say no to you.”

“I’m quite sure he wouldn’t feel the same,” you say after some time.

“then he is a fool and not worth you time. at least give me a name so i know who to convince of your affections and virtues,” he proclaims.

“Zeffirelli.”

“oui?“

softer. “Zeffirelli. his name is Zeffirelli.” no one breathes. your hand has stilled its motion in his hair. you don’t move, scared that it’ll break the spell and set him off.

“could i be that lucky?” he says, sitting up and facing you. he searches your eyes and looks for lies where he most certainly finds none.

“could i?” you ask back. his response is to lean and and kiss you gently, his hand cupping your cheek. he pulls back and traces your face gently, almost as if he’s memorizing every line. like you haven’t been engraved into his very soul since the first time you talked to him.

[growup-thatbeautiful]

Zeffirelli playing the piano!

as always, my inbox is open! this is short and sweet

yo

yo

this. i’m a genius

you wake up one night, wearing one of his soft school sweaters

you hear noise from the other room, something quiet and haunting

the bed is cold beside you, missing Zeffirelli’s warmth

there’s no one else at the apartment, the both of you being at his parents apartment for the holiday while they’re gone

you walk barefoot to where the melody is coming from

and there he is

somehow his hair is more wild than usual

you shuffle your feet around so bw knows you’re there and make your way towards him

“you couldn’t sleep?”

“no,” he answers, scooting over on the bench

you slide next to him on the bench, facing away from the piano

his fingers dance across the ivory keys, the golden signent ring you gave him last year. glinting from the golden light

you head against his shoulder, he keeps playing

it’s simple, and he misses some notes. the first time he does you can feel him tense up

he always cares what you think, maybe too much

so yo give him encouragement by wrapping your arms around his neck, playing with the ends of his hair

“i haven’t played in forever,” he says when he finishes. he kisses your forehead softly, so softly

“you should okay more often, amour.”

“i will for you.” he lights a cigarette, and pulls you closer to him, up and into his lap

“i will play every night for you.” you lean forward, your forehead against his, looking into his eyes

“and i’ll listen.