#zeffirelli fanfiction

[growup-thatbeautiful]

zeffirelli x m reader where reader is zeffs muse.Reader can't do anything without being stopped by zeff.Anything reader is stopped.Getting a book, eating, playing chess,sleeping, bathing, changing clothes.Whatever zeffs boyfriend does zeff tells him to stop and pulls out a sketch book.

A/n: hey! thank you for the idea ♥️ i just did gender neutral no pronouns, hope that’s okay! no other gender related stuff.

“Hold that pose,” Zeffirelli says. You hear it every day from him, that phrase, but it never fails to make you grin. He’s sitting across the room from you in a green velvet armchair that you’re sure his parents bought for you, and he looks every bit the part of an artist. His hair, usually wild, is somehow sticking up even worse than usual, and there’s pencil marks all over the pads of his fingertips. You know the callouses on his hands well, and you can see the angry red blisters forming where old ones were peeled off. It’s a habit of his you’ve been trying to break to no avail.

“I’m reading a book,” you remind him, “I wasn’t planning on moving, love.”

He huffs an annoyed sound before reaching for the sketchbook that he keeps in his bag. “You don’t have to be smart about it.”

“I do if you keep asking me to pose for you. I can’t do a single thing without you stopping me.”

“That’s not true,” he defends, his eyes switching rapidly between you and his sketchbook. When he’s drawing, his hair flops down in front of his eyes and his tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth. It’s endearing, and you have it memorized from the amount of times you’ve watched him like this.

“Zef, you drew me while I was cooking breakfast and we almost burned the apartment down.” Despite your protests, you don’t move like he told you to. As annoying as it can get, you don’t hate being drawn by him anymore. “And we’ve never made it through a game of chess.”

“I would beat you anyway, amor.”

“I know you would.” You continue flicking through the pages of your book in comfortable silence, the only sound being the occasional scratch of his pencil against the paper. You tell yourself to stay put and look as natural as possible, which you’re still working on.

“I’m done,” he says after a while. You mark the spot on your page with a slip of paper (Zeffirelli refuses to call it a bookmark) and make your way over to sit on the arm of his chair. “What do you think?”

It’s a lovely drawing. The light, made of black and white shadows, catches your eyes in an enchanting fashion, and the pattern of your pajama top looks so incredibly soft and textured. It makes you look like a vision, sweet and still and beautiful.

It’s the way he sees you when you aren’t paying attention. Before you get dressed and before you’ve tried to care about what you look like.

Through the drawing, you see why he’s in love with you. Through the drawing, you remember why you’re in love with him.

“It’s beautiful, Zef,” you whisper with a kiss to his temple. “Thank you.”

He leans into your touch. “No, love, thank you. What would I draw without you, hm?”

There are a lot of things he could draw- you’ve seen his drawings of buildings and animals and cups of coffee- but the idea is flattering.

It’s not so bad to be his muse. Especially when it ends like this; you, curled up next to him, listening as he talks about your plans for the day, your fingers carding through his hair.

Yeah, there are worse things to be.

taglist: @shawnieeboyy @itshellinthereitshorror

[basketofkithes]

Request here!

Hi, I’m T. I wanted to start writing fanfiction for people so here I am! I know what its like to request something and it takes forever to someone to actually write it so I’ll try my best to do every single one I get! Please dont plagiarize, critique or translate my work. There  is a sample of my writing below inspired by this photo of Timothee Chalamet.  

I’ll write for the characters of his I’m familar with including: Elio perlman, Billy mitman, Kyle Schleible, Daniel Middleton, Zeffirelli, Gatsby, Prince Hal and Paul Atreides.  Timothee Chalamet x Female Reader

Salty Kisses 

Summary: The two of you are at the beach and competitively have a water gun fight with a group of strangers on opposing sides. Though you eventually end up getting distracted by eachother.  Warnings: None

Squawking seagulls would flock over your group frequently, their elongated shadows casting across the golden sand. They were almost like vultures waiting to snatch up some 5-year old's ice cream and then fly away before the poor kid even acknowledged it was gone. Though if the seagull hadn't got to it surely the beaming sun would have.

The sun was something you were grateful for, not only because you needed it to live but also because it seemed to enhance the beauty of the things around you. It’d make bland sand turn into golden particles that’d grant you flight and a simple fruit juice look like it carried the universe within its seemingly insignificant plastic encasement. This made you wonder what you’d look like in such light.

 “You're not even gonna spare me because I’m your girlfriend?!” You sputtered, tasting nothing but salt. The two of you had been invited to a water gun fight because there was a shortage of players. The couple who approached you said the two of you seemed like “great company”, this puzzled you because the two of you were just intensely debating on whether or not there were more doors or wheels in the world. Nevertheless, you two were not going to say no to fun.

 “In war such labels are irrelevant! Surrender or further be drenched!” He spat the words with artificial aggression, the long vein in his neck protruding outwards. His tough expression was repetitively broken by even the smallest of smiles.

“Never!” As soon as the word left your mouth he was on your trail once again, you scrambled in the opposite direction towards the water. The small waves slapped at the skin on your thighs fiercely as you awaited your opponent's arrival. He stood at the shore what would be menacingly if it wasn't for the goofy grin on his face.“You're really gonna make me get my shorts wet?!” His curls squandered beautifully in the summer breeze. He squinted when the sunlight directly hit his face, giving it a celestial glow.

“Is that really the reason you're not coming in? Or are you just scared?!”

 “Is that a challenge?!”

“Maybe.” You shrugged, watching him contemplate between the two choices. He ultimately chose to enter the water, wading through it hastily. The two of you stood directly in front of each other, fingers resting on the triggers of your water guns. Though they were there, it didn't seem either of you had the intention of pushing it. He stepped closer, smiling down at you. Water droplets fell from his tresses, trailing down his face and dripping off his chin. Often they’d fall to wet your cheeks. You turned your head to look at the burning horizon of titian. There was that sun doing its work.

His hand came to rest under your chin, turning your head back to him. You noticed his gaze linger where yours had just been. “Isn't it beautiful?” His eyes flicked back to you, he nodded and leaned in. Your lips grazed one another's, you rested your hands on his clammy chest and he shut his eyes, smiling into the kiss. Your lips pulled him in. His grasp had slipped on his gun, leading to it splashing in the water below you. Droplets of saltwater slid down your legs.

 You parted. “Mon amour…” He muttered, when he leaned in for another you pushed him back. “Wha..what’re you teasing me for?” He huffed, following your gaze back to the shoreline. There idly stood one of your teammates. “It's getting dark so we’re heading to a party, it's just off a little to the side of the beach! You guys could come too if you want.`` They shrugged. “Yeah, we’re coming!” You turned away from Timothee, giving your teammate a nod. “We are?” He raised his eyebrows and peeked over your shoulder to observe your expression. “We are! I know you can dance, I’ve seen you, Timmy.” You rolled your hips and jutted your shoulders, imitating his moves.

 He laughed and slung an arm over your shoulders, you did the same. “I dont dance like that Y/N.” 

“You do too!”

“No, I dontttt…” You retrieved his water gun from the water and he pressed his face into your wet hair. “Whatever, come on, we might miss the alcoholic drinks!” You took a step forward and he lazily did the same. The two of you continued to stagger and stumble to shore, almost falling numerous times. 

[amoralto]

Ficbits! Featuring 1968′s emotional disaster ocean!Paul. #1-3 are all part of same story as this #1 ficbit; this time focusing on the meeting Paul and John, together, had with Franco Zeffirelli in Apple in 1968 (i.e. after Romeo and Juliet had already been cast, shot, wrapped, and set for release). The whys and whats of this meeting are unknown, but it certainly makes for rich disastrous fodder for fanfiction.

#4 is just me being evil and having one of Paul’s dinners with Robert Fraser converge with one of Paul’s walks/drives to Abbey Road with John. For @ladyjaneasher, as all my Robert ficbits are.

1. “Well, I’m coming along,” John says. “It’s gonna affect the company and all of us if things go through and I should be there anyway. There should be somebody clear-minded in the room to see if he’s worth trusting, make sure he’s not taking advantage.”

He’s needling, really, but it’s the least Paul has coming for him, and at least it’s from someone who can be trusted. He’s almost hoping for the protest, the argument, hoping for Paul to ignite and sling them both into a barrage of hot words and insinuations, prove he cares, say some shit about Yoko for fuck’s sake, something. But Paul doesn’t even look at him, just stares up at the ceiling and hums a nothing song of assent, dissent, consent, nothing at all, a collapsible bloated thing in his armchair. And isn’t that the worst of it, the wisp of melody that rises even from the moors of Paul’s remoteness.

“Paul,” he calls.

“Oh, yeah,” Paul says absently. “Yeah, sure. Tell Derek to pencil it in.”

2. “You’ve grown your hair since we last saw each other,” Zeffirelli says to Paul, dripping approval, lusty with it. John hates him already. “It’s a shame we weren’t able to work it out together, for the film. Your hair would have been very fine for it.”

“What, is the film about warring salons now?” John asks.

“It is about love,” Zeffirelli says earnestly. “Captured love between young people. The long hair befits that youngness, that sun. Both of my actors are very much embodying of that.”

3. “He was never gonna give you any of that,” John says. “I’m telling you, General Franco, you really dodged a bullet. Have you seen our silver screen work? He can’t even play himself.”

4. He should be more surprised to see John’s Rolls parked outside the gate. For once, the fans scatter without fuss to let Paul’s mini through, allowing them to step out of the car no worse for wear. John is sitting on the front steps with an attaché case, a spectre in white, hair like a funeral veil, the last breaths of a cigarette wafting about him. He doesn’t know how long John’s been waiting; he doesn’t ask.

“Alright, Bob,” John says to him with no intonation, getting to his feet. He hands Paul some scattered sheets of looseleaf, a perfunctory intimacy. “Worked on something.”

“Yeah, great.” Paul tucks the papers under his arm and looks back at Robert. “Early night?”

“Phone calls,” Robert says. “A bit of business, a nightcap, then bed.”

“Heavenly.” Paul steps close to touch toes with Robert, a warm hand on Robert’s elbow, and kisses his cheek in the continental style: less a goodbye than a promise of future meeting. Paul’s way of things. John lingers somewhere off the point of Paul’s shoulder and watches it all, silent and radiating like a judgmental moon. “Thanks for dinner.”

“Until the next.”

Paul smiles and turns to look at John, then back at him, rubbing his eyes, overbright and weary. He looks intoxicated—with wine, with foreboding. “Well, to market, to market,” he says sleepily. “We’ll walk out with you. Fancy a walk, John?”

“Sure,” John says. He scratches his thigh with the butt of his case. “Got a toot on you by any chance, Bob?”

(As for something fic-related but not at all Beatles-related that I shill with some shame: this fic for The Social Network I wrote nearly ten years ago, which I recently read through again and didn’t entirely hate, which was both a surprise and a relief. I cleaned up the garbage HTML and shaved off the roughest edges, so - please read it if you’re at all interested in: barbed dialogue, scorned and passive-aggressive Eduardo Saverin, and insinuating asshole Sean Parker.)

[growup-thatbeautiful]

Birthday wishes to @uhh-cogitoergosum !! this is for you, babe. all my love on your special day <33

taglist lovelies: @shawnieeboyy

Birthdays

You wake up to sunlight streaming in from the white curtains, casting a morning glow over the room. Your first thought is that in this moment you’re perfectly content to lay here all day. The sheets are silky against your skin and the pillow is at the perfect level for you to rest your head. Next to you, Zeffirelli is snoring softly, his hair spread across the pillow like spilled ink. The arm that isn’t trapped underneath his head is lying loosely on top of you, thrown there without a second thought in the middle of the night. Because of the beautiful weather of late, you left the window open overnight and the smell of coffee and freshly baked bread wafts in from the street below, along with the telltale sounds of a new morning’s start. There are bicycle bells and merchants calling out prices, as well as the low hum of conversations between neighbors and the laughter of children leaving for school. Small city sounds that you can’t get anywhere else, as familiar to you as the cobblestone of the streets below.

Your second thought is that there was something different about today. A reason why, for some reason, Zeffirelli isn’t off scribbling in one of his journals or in class. Usually, by this time in the morning, the two of you are doing your early morning rush, making coffee and packing messenger bags to take all of your books to school or the library or a coffee shop to study. It’s a dance you’ve long since perfected with him, an unspoken schedule that he wakes up first and goes down the street for pastries from the sweet old man that claims Zeffirelli is the new Shakespeare. While he does that, you make coffee and gather all of the things for the rest of the day, setting plates on the table and getting out your respective favorite coffee mugs. He returns and breakfast is accompanied by sleepy conversations about late-night poetic thoughts he had or a new idea you have to write about.

With a barely stifled groan, you realize why you’re here in this bed and not somewhere else. The culprit is-

“Good morning, ange. Happy birthday,” mumbles your suddenly awake boyfriend from his spot next to you. He reaches out and brushes a strand of hair out of your face fruitlessly. It falls right back in front of your eyes, just like both of you know it will. Instead of trying again, he places a gentle hand on the side of your face, and you immediately lean into the warmth of it.

“You know I don’t want a lot today, right? I was clear about that?” you reply, meeting his eyes for the first time today and kissing the palm of his hand gently.

“Yes, love,” Zeffirelli laughs, wrapping his arms around your waist. “You were very clear about that. Don’t worry, I have the perfect day planned for us.”

“Meaning no plans at all?” you ask hopefully.

“Exactement,” he confirms. “No plans to leave this apartment for the whole day.”

“Dieu merci. No one else seems to believe that I want to do absolutely nothing on my birthday.” You can’t count the number of times you’ve been unwillingly dragged along to shops and surprise parties only to talk with people you have no interest in and eat food that you don’t like. It sounds ungrateful, and maybe it is, but it truly and simply stems from the fact that your ideal and perfect birthday is one without the hassle and stress of doing anything at all.

“I only believe you do to your complete insistence on the schedule of today,” admits Zeffirelli. “But also because I know you do not say things you don’t mean. That is the appreciation of truth in you that I admire so deeply.”

“It’s too early for talk like that.” Despite your protests, his words fill you with an indescribable feeling that only he can draw from you.

“It’s nine in the morning,” grins Zeffirelli. “I’ve said nicer things earlier, I’m positive of it. Come on, we have things to do. A very busy day is ahead of us.” Your glare is enough to make him surrender. “D’accord, mi amor. A busy day that consists of nothings. Meilleur?”

“Better,” you agree, taking his hand and rolling out of bed. In comfortable silence only achieved by the highest level of intimacy, you get dressed alongside Zeffirelli, opting for comfort. A pair of sweatpants and a soft t-shirt of his that’s worn to holes are your choices, the only jewelry is a simple ring that he got for you that you never take off. He’s similarly dressed.

“Magnifique,” breathes Zeffirelli, taking you at arm's length to look at you. Overcome by emotions as he usually is, he spins you around, the music his laugh.

“You always say that.” You’re blushing anyway.

“I will continue to do so until you believe it.” You’re willingly pulled past the kitchen and into the living room, Zeffirelli’s hand firmly in yours.

“Or until it’s not true anymore,” you tease. “When I’m old and grey and all my tomorrow were yesterday, as the song goes.”

“That day will never come.” Zeffirelli’s tone is completely serious, nothing like the joking one you used. “You will always be the focus of my attention and the most beautiful thing in every room. The stars and the flowers should be envious of the attention you rightfully steal from them.” The only reply you can muster is something insufficient about it being too early for his words again.

And just like that, his smile returns easily. It’s one of the things you’re proudest of, the fact that you can make him smile with such small words or glances.

“So, what’s first on our agenda?” you ask, jumping onto the counter, the cool marble underneath your palms.

“I got Monsieur Pereot to deliver us some of his pastries to the door, so we don’t have to go anywhere. Also, I ordered coffee this time so you don’t have to fight with the beans yourself.”

“Have I told you how much I love you?”

“You’ve been very clear about that, yes.” Zeffirelli opens the front door, and sure enough, there’s a basket waiting there, freshly baked goods and coffee nestled in the middle. He puts them down on the table and you give him a kiss, wrapping your arms around his neck.

When you pull back, he asks, “What was that for?”

“Just in case I don’t tell you enough today that I love you.” A blush rises to his cheeks, one that thrills you.

“Such consideration towards me on your day.”

“I’m working on my sharing,” you say solemnly. “Especially with beautiful, poetic men who give me baked goods in the morning.”

“Don’t think that’s the only thing you’re getting today,” warns Zeffirelli. “Finish that and follow me.” He points to the chocolate croissant in your hand. With a flourish, you eat the last bite and he leads you into the living room. He grabs something from the table.

“This, mon ange, is for you.” Zeffirelli hands you a package wrapped in brown paper and tied with a white string. Its simplicity is stunning to you, as you’re sure he knows.

With his nod to continue, you carefully unwrap the paper, laying it to the side. Inside, is a journal-sized book, immediately recognizable to you. It’s Les Fleurs du Mal, your favorite poetry book, but not the basic one that sits on your nightstand. This copy is special. The edge of the pages are painted with a startling silver, contrasting the dark blue cover. On the front there’s what looks like a wax stamp in the shape of a tulip, also silver, that sticks out with a smooth texture. The title is written in sprawling cursive with flowery details surrounding it. The pages are well worn, and the edges of the cover are bent inwards, obviously well loved.

“It’s not new,” he apologizes softly, “but I wanted to buy you something with money of my own.”

“It doesn’t matter,” you assure. “It’s beautiful.”

“I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of making some annotations in it. I know it’s one of your favorites, and I thought you might like my thoughts. If not, I will go this instant and get you a different one.”

You interrupt his rambling with a gentle kiss. “That makes it all the more special, ma chérie. Your thoughts are always wanted by me, especially in the realm of things I love such as this book.”

With that, you grab his hand and pull him onto the couch beside you, settling in to read the book. You stop for a light lunch, tomato and basil salad with fresh veggies and bread from the market a few streets away. Then, back to reading.

At some point, upon the rather loud insistence of your stomach, Zeffirelli stands and grabs your hand, pulling you off the couch. “I made you dinner.”

“How? You can’t cook? And you’ve been with me the whole day,” you laugh, following him easily. You would do anything he asks of you, even if it means horrible-tasting food he inevitably burns or undercooks. You have plenty of experience pretending to like his cooking from when you first started dating and didn’t want to tell him how bad it was. Eventually, he started seeing through the grimaces and hiding food in your napkin, and you were the designated cook when you wanted to stay at home for a meal, seeing as your level of cooking is above the inedible bar he set.

Zeffirelli shrugs and gestures around. “I got the ingredients yesterday while you were studying at the library, and I thought we could do it together. Like you always want to.”

You don’t have any words to say to him, opting to jump into his arms instead, which apparently he isn’t expecting based on the surprised laugh and stumble.

“Before we start, I have another gift for you.”

“You didn’t have to-“

“I did,” he interrupts. “If you won’t let me take you out to dinner then I’ll spoil you as much as I can here.”

“Fine,” you assent. “But only because it obviously makes you happy.” With a grin, Zeffirelli leaves the room and comes back with a flat package, handing it to you while getting out the supplies for dinner.

You open the brown paper to reveal a record, Frank Sinatra’s Songs for Swingin’ Lovers. It’s been a recent obsession of yours, and you know you’ve been driving Zeffirelli crazy with your constant out of tune singing of You Make Me Feel So Young.

“I know you think you’re being subtle about your obsession with that new American, Frank Sinatra, but you, mon amor, are not. The blue eyed man has captured you as well as the rest of that country, so I thought to give you a chance to share him with me. His love songs can be our love songs now. His words, our testimony and adoration and devotion.”

“You hate American music,” you wonder out loud, running your hands over the cool vinyl.

“Not if you love it,” he insists. “What you love I am determined to love as well, because what is yours is mine. All of those places in your heart for the American music are places I want to explore with you.”

“How lucky am I to have you as mine,” you murmur, looking at him. “Tout mon couer.” Your whole heart. He truly is.

“And you are my dreams and my life and my stars. A day without you is worse than a day without sun because while cloud’s have beauty, your absence does not,” he replies earnestly. “Happy birthday.”

[growup-thatbeautiful]

What do you think Zeffirelli would be like as a father?

Also, just want to say thank you for all the Zeffirelli content you blessed us with, I honestly thought I would find nothing on him after I watched the film, so having the abundance of quality content you made is absolutely amazing. Thank you! 💕

OMGGGGGG THIS MADE ME SO SOFT i just love him so much *cries* and you’re so welcome!!! i honestly don’t feel like it’s a blessing to anyone, but you’re words are appreciated so much <3333 fr, thank you

i just wanna start this off by saying that Zeffirelli would be understanding to his partner not wanting to have kids, wanting to adopt, wanting cats or plants, and anything in between. he would love you no matter what your choice about the future is (because yes, it’s a conversation between the two of you, but it’s ultimately your choice. he respects that. he doesn’t understand anyone who doesn’t respect that. period. moving on the the prompt)

now, assuming he did choose to have kids with you and you become parents:

he would be extremely nervous. he grew up in a supportive family, had lots to be thankful for and has loving parents around. that doesn’t, however, stop the worries that he has.

what if he’s not a good father? what if it turns out he doesn’t know what to do? so many what ifs running through his head that he sometimes needs a reminded of his own value.

you try the best way you know how

“mon amour, do you have any doubts about my common sense?” he would answer no very quickly, shaking his head almost violently.

“then trust yourself the way i trust you. i don’t know anyone who will be more loving, and supporting of our child. not mine, not yours. someone who’s wholly ours. someone we’re going to get into fights with and tell horrible jokes to and love unconditionally. you already do those things to me, i have no doubts you can do it to them to.”

you would decorate the kids room with soft colors and hanging plants. he would spend hours looking through poetry to find the perfect quotes to paint all around the room.

my personal favorites are “how lucky i am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard” and “i will love you if i never see you again and i will love you if i see you every tuesday.”

he would be so cute holding them for the first time. also, so scared of dropping them, but he would be a natural.

i think he would be such a great dad to a little girl. you would name her something poetic

some ideas i have are Jules like Juliet, Emily like Dickinson, Slyvie like Plath, Angel/Maya for Maya Angelou

he would love her so much y’all. he would have zero impulse control when it comes to her asking for things, and would encourage whatever she got into

sports, writing, school, theater. if she does it, he’s going to be there for her.

he learns how to paint nails on you and then makes it a whole thing with her. he would call it “going to the spa” and paint her nails all of the colors she wants

he shows her all of his favorite kids movies like sleeping beauty and peter pan and tells her adorable stories that you can’t help listening to them too

you actually start having whole story nights with pillow forts and soft blankets

you’ll lay on top of each other and try to make her laugh as hard as she can, calling her more and more ridiculous nicknames that you flick him on the nose and he does the same to you, earning giggles from her

shadow puppets. he would be so proud of the shadow puppets he learned. you would laugh almost as much as Little Girl. it would be so dreamy, evening light and the fairy lights he got for himself her

he wears matching clothes with his Little Girl. there’s this red jacket that he and her both have and the make you take pictures of them together.

you’ve never seen them smile so much.

he’s always there to kiss her scrapes better and dance with her on his toes in the kitchen, you eventually joining in, a happy tangled family mess

as she grows older, he and you get more scared of her drifting away, but that’s just how things are

she still comes to you when she’s hurt, he still tells her stories after breakups or bad grades

she has his poetry and shows them to you two sometimes when shes proud of them

you get to watch her grow up and get hurt, learn who she is and see how she always, always comes back for a second hug from her dad

those red jackets are dusty in the closet, but their pictures are hanging on the wall.

he gives her one of those pictures when she goes to college, a note tucked in the back that has the quotes from her bedroom

shit this is making me sad i’m gonna go think about the new S&B cast okay bye

[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.

[growup-thatbeautiful]

I can't get the turban Zeffirelli has in the bathtub out of my head. Do you have any ideas on what it would be like to take a bath with him?

i’m not a huge bath person unless i’m freezing cold, but with zeffirelli…… istg i would do anything for this man

i have it in my head that he likes all the bubbles and nice smelling things

of course, he doesn’t know that until after he meets you and you take your first bath with him

you ask him if he wants bubbles with his bath

he’s like a little kid “bubbles? like the ones that have rainbows and are for outside?”

his eyes are super big and amazed

so you put in the soap and add some nice scenes, probably lavender or rose

something he would be able to recognize and light up about because you can’t help yourself

you make the water almost scalding hot because he told you that’s the way he likes it

(he stays in too long for it to start off warm. it’s where i do my best writing.” you can’t disagree)

the mirror is fogged up, the tile is slippery with water, and fluffy towels are waiting by the tub to be used

its so hot when you first get in. it burns your skin and hurts, but zeffirelli is there and you just laugh it off together

there’s water dripping from the tips of his hair and it’s so pretty, reflecting the colors of the bubbles

you’re sitting facing each other, legs intertwined between you

maybe you two start a splashing war and get water all over the floor and have go clean it up later, who knows

you tell each other about your day, and just generally relax with each other

he tried to catch some of the bubbles and style his hair with them and gets you to do the same

his hair is spiked up in a row of spikes and it’s adorable

just imagining that is making be blush omg

you just….melt

he’s adorable about the whole thing, for realzies

let’s be honest, you could sit there and talk with him for hours

so you stay there until the water is cold and you’re basically shivering

now he asks for it every time you’re going to take a bath

even when he’s just taking a bath alone he’ll come up to you and ask you if he can use your bath stuff no matter how many times you tell him that he doesn’t have to ask

he loves it and now whenever you two have a bad day it’s a tradition to take a bath together to talk about it and feel better :)

this is just so soft aaaaaa

[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]

Headcannon for Zeffirelli wanting to get married 🥺

🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺 i am so soft about this. i already did him proposing here, but this deserves a post too

we all know he’s a sweetheart

he would talk about being with you forever before he proposed

a whole lot of “that will look perfect when you move in here” and “you’re going to be so beautiful your whole life, chaton.”

he’ll ask you about what you like when you’re out shopping with him. what colors, what patterns, house decor style

when you’re talking a walk, at some time you point out a brownstone apartment that you think is gorgeous

he’ll ask you what you think about having kids, but of course make it clear that whatever you want won’t scare him away. “i’m here for you no matter what you want, beau.”

there’s ivy on the cream-colored walls, plant boxes on the windows blooming with flowers

the front door is painted light blue

you think he just passes it off as a random comment, nothing more

but right before your wedding he asks you if you want to live there, and when you say yes he tells you that he’ll make it happen

he would spend so much time making it a true home with you

it’s an important step to him that you make it with things that both of you like

an antique writing desk for him, a velvet couch and lots of blankets for you, a record player for you both to dance too

which you and him do all. the. time.

there are unpacked boxes all around you, but he doesn’t care when he spins you around and laughs when you slip and then kisses you like nothing else matters

maybe nothing else does, at least not in the moment

then he would do the most romantic proposal ever (probably like the one i described in the link above. shameless promotion on my part lol)

he would not stop thinking about actually marrying you ever

when he comes home, his first thing to say to you is how many days you have until you get married. the puppy dog eyes would be insanely successful on you

“only two more week until you won’t be able to get rid of me.” “three days, love. tu te fous de moi. i’m the luckiest in the world.”

that actual day of he would listen to all of the superstitions and warn you to fo the same.

“come on, just do them. we don’t want to accidentally curse ourselves. i’m not taking any chances.”

he’s giddy with excitement the whole week of. random times of him pulling you into joyous dancing

he’s also aware that you’re stressed a lot about the planning and all the family in town

he makes sure to tell you when he thinks you’re taking on too much, and he’s quick to tell anyone putting pressure on you to back off

in the nicest way possible of course

because he’s the nicest person possible

he’s just takes care of you the whole time and really doesn’t care how you get married because all that matters to him is you being happy and you being his :)

my beautiful taglist loves: @shawnieeboyy @timmyslover (join my taglist here)

[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]

What do you think it would be like to play chess with Zeffirelli?

Your portrayal of him is spot on, I love everything you wrote about him! ❤️

i’ve been exposed 😭😭 i don’t know how to play chess. my cousin tried to teach me one summer and i even had an app but we stopped cause i wasn’t getting better aaaaa. but, for the sake of fic correctness and having an actual storyline i’ll pretend that i know how

playing chess with Zeffirelli

chess is his thing, he loves it

he’s obviously incredibly smart and knows what he’s doing

you….don’t really know what you’re doing

i mean you know how to play chess but you never learned like he did

he’s sweet about it, tries to help you when you’re playing against someone else

“love, maybe try moving this piece, yeah, there you go! good job, that’s my girl.”

he even makes up some make believe scenarios just for fun to make you enjoy chess and not make it sound so boring

“the rook is moving forward into position to protect the queen because he’s madly in love with her. he’s heading towards certain death, knowing that he’s doing to die and she’s not going to remember him other than his smile when she knighted him.”

“so i should move him forever?”

he would ruffle your hair and kiss the top of your head and not specifically tell you what to do, but he already gave you all the hints you needed

he also gets mad when anyone makes fun of your skills because he knows that you’re really trying hard

“don’t say that, come on. no need to be cruel.”

if they say it again he is done™️ “i need you to leave now. you can’t respect my queen, you can’t play. fuck off.

however, when he plays against you it’s a totally different thing

he’s competitive no matter how much he loves you (he loves you a lot, that’s why he’s okay with teaching you his secret chess moves)

he wins every time, you never really come close, but he’s never cruel about it at all

he won’t go easy, but he’ll help you with your moves if you’re stuck

he also tells you after each game everything that you did right (he keeps a list)

he just adores how much effort you put into learning something he loves

a little extra and not super related, but chess themed nicknames for you (i’m in love with this idea now): my queen, my second knight, rosewood, checkmate, any more ideas, loves?

[growup-thatbeautiful]

I feel like you have a Zeffirelli marriage theme going that started with a proposal & now I wanna request a hc for a honeymoon with him. Thank you so much bestie 💖❤️💗

there’s definitely a theme going on lolll

Zeffirelli’s Honeymoon

(why does that sound like a bad comedy movie)

i don’t really think he would want to go somewhere super crowded, and he wouldn’t want to go to the beach because i feel like he doesn’t like the water that much

somewhere secluded and romantic

romance is definitely the main thing he would look for

but also scenery

a place that i specifically know of that has both is Verona, Italy

just hear me out. a) it has a really pretty town b) there ar every nice places to stay that overlook said town on a vineyard or land c) ROMEO AND JULIET (aaand my obsession with R&J comes out at last. feels good)

there’s urban and country options there and you decide to do both of course

you start in the city, seeing all the romantic spots

he insists that you take a picture with Juliet’s balcony

and you get to watch the nighttime lights from a very expensive hotel rooftop where they have anything you could want

then you go into the country. there are homemade meals, endless walking paths, and not very many people!

his love struck side really gets to show there because he can do all the pda in the world and not bother a single soul

you lay out in the grass together on a hill overlooking the city and talk for hours

and you do more than talk

as it’s your job to be helplessly in love with each other, you also climb trees (that zeffirelli gets stuck in), try cooking together (you burn the cookies), and make out in every corner (you get caught so many times)

it would be altogether a fairly calm honeymoon because you really just want to be with each other and bask in the fact that !you’re married to the most wonderful man ever!

taglist loves: @shawnieeboyy @timmyslover

[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]

Your Zeffirelli content 😍 Thank you so much 🙏 It is much needed after watching the movie. Can I ask, how do you think an argument would go with him?

omg this made me so sad 😭😭 sadder than the letter. probably cause fighting is something you can control and death isn’t….. anyway.

i think fights would be….terrible, honestly. you’re both highly romantic, passionate people, which doesn’t tend to make fights quiet. you both hate fighting, but sometimes you end up screaming at each other without knowing why.

you also both end up crying. a lot of things that don’t need to be said are said, and there’s a lot of language. it escalates quickly…..

“I don’t think you’re real! You’re not a person. You’re literally nothing,” you yell at him, more than a kitchen counter between you.

“What the fuck are you talking about? Of course I’m real. I know cause I’m standing here listen to this shit,” he spits out. You know his words are supposed to be venomous, but he can never quite master the time. Neither can you, to be honest.

“No. I think I made you up,” you accuse.

He lets out a low groan, and and rolls his eyes. “Don’t do any of this poetic shit.” Like he isn’t just as poetic as you

“It’s my fucking job to do this poetic shit,” you explode, throwing your arms out wide.

“Jesus fucking christ. It’s your job to stand beside me. It’s your job to smile at parties and look pretty. It isn’t your job to leave. You’re making a big deal out of nothing. Something inconsequential that I don’t even know about. If you’re making anything up it’s this bullshit.”

“It’s never been my job to sit there and look pretty. That’s not who I am, and that’s definitely not who I thought you were. But you’ve been proving me wrong a lot recently so who knows.”

“The fuck does that mean?” You don’t answer. “No. You don’t get to do that. You said it, you can fucking explain it. You’re a big girl. What the fuck do you mean?”

You explode. “I mean I don’t know you anymore! I don’t fucking know you. You don’t exist. The man that I feel in love with was never real. The kind, gentle, funny Zeffirelli that I loved is fucking fake. And not I’m stuck with this.” You don’t mean a single word of it, but you want him to feel how you feel. Angry, used, and ignored. If he had just listened to you at the party instead of going off with his friends. It’s strange that that’s what this is all about.

“Come on, don’t do that,” he’s speaking softer now. It’s always like this when you fight. He gives up on being angry and stops you when you’re about to go too far. “I know you don’t mean that, so don’t say it. We’re purposeful people, love, and we don’t say things we don’t mean.” Just like that, with tears in your eyes and his, the fight leaves you. Physically, you deflate.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. It’s not enough, this will take more talks and apologizes to heal, but he accepts it.

“I know yo hare. I am too. We both said some bad stuff. But we’ll get over it like we always do. I love you too much to let this make you leave.”

[growup-thatbeautiful]

hi, i'm the anon asking about 'love letter from Zeffirelli'. thank you so much for responding!!! it means so much. as heartbreaking as it is, i love that idea and can totally see Ms Krementz being awkwardly supportive. could you, maybe, if you have the time and inspiration, write what Zeffirelli's last letter about the revolution being over would be like? only if you want to, no pressure x

(love letter from zeffirelli)

hi! welcome back to the I’m obsessed with zeffirelli show. thank you so much for asking!

and i usually don’t do this, but please please please leave comments. i don’t need a reblog, i just want to know what people think :)

~~~~~~~~

he’s a mess. he hasn’t showered in what feels like weeks. hes sore for no reason and tired for a thousand reasons, but it’s a good kind of tired. the kind that makes him want nothing more than to go to his room and write you a letter. he hasn’t had a lot of indulgences in the past few weeks, so that’s just what he does.

it’s a shock that his parents house remains the same, after all of the all the change. even his dorm had been a wreck, blankets thrown across the beds and clothes strewn everyone, revolutionary pamphlets creating a carpet.

he creeps up to his room quietly, his shoes slipped off at the door.

ma grande passion,

excellent news! the revolution is successfully over, the heroes coming out on top. at least, i hope history will view us as heroes. i think what we’ve done is spectacular. i may be biased, though.

i can’t believe it’s over. it feels like we’ve been fighting forever, but looking back it seems like it was just a moment. and the moments i remember the best are the ones when i was thinking of you. strange how that works, isn’t it?

ms. kremintz is pretending not to be happy about it, but i think she’ll come home to your town and tell you all about the wonderful things we did. i’m jealous of how much she gets to see you. don’t let her turn you against me, though. i’m never sure if she despises me or just everything in general.

now that it’s over, i can come and visit you on weekends or simply whenever i feel like it. i’ll surely have the time, and you’re not too far away. of course, my parents will protest to me traveling so much, but i find it quite poetic. long, rainy train rides to go and see my love. i’ll catch up on my writing, maybe finally write you that list of things i love.

it’s an increasingly long list. everything you’ve ever told me you love is undoubtedly on it. as is everything about you. your eyes and the way they shine when you get excited, your nose and the way it scrunches up when you’re happy, your curved smile. there are too many to write.

i’m falling asleep with the pen in hand. you know better than me how to write in sleep, and that thoughts at are always more beautiful than the ones we have lucidly. i’m sure i’ll dream of you.

your one and only love,

xxx zeffirelli

he signs his name with an extra flourish. he can’t wait to see you again. he starts planning it on his way to the radio, where he’s giving a final broadcast.

his thoughts are on you when he’s on the top of that fatal satellite.

“how much you would love this view,” he says to no one.

those are his last words, unheard by anyone except the lightening that puts christmas lights in his hair.

the letter arrives to you a week after his death. it’s a knife in your heart, reading his words. there are tears running down your face, and the pain gets worse when one of them splashes against his words. your franticly wipe the rest away and keep reading.

your efforts are in vain, because the note ends up crumbled and tear-stained anyway from when you hold it close to your heart and sob silently, wildly.

when you tell ms. kremintz that there’s a part about her, she refuses to listen to the words. you can see she’s hurting, but you can’t do anything about it. you can’t even help yourself.

you write his words about her and slip it under her door later that day, and in the night she comes to you and says that he was a good kid. then, she pats your cheek, gives you an awkward and comforting hug, and goes to her room.

somehow, it’s the first time you smile for a week.