When In Rome ► Timothée Chalamet

7 | The Moving Statues

Y/N

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The boy was silent for most of it, his gaze set on the sidewalk in front of him. We had been walking for a quarter of an hour, and the further we got from the store, the more uneasy I felt.

The same golden glow seemed to stick with every turn we took, and I wiped a faint line of sweat off of my forehead. We had climbed over 4 hills, and he didn't seem like he was going to stop anytime soon.

"Where are we going?" I asked for the third time.

Surprisingly, he stopped. We were standing in the middle of another hill, the blistering heat making my t-shirt stick to my skin.

"Are you tired?" He said, watching as I bent dont to take a breath.

"A little," I said, through small gasps, "how much further do we have to walk?"

"Just over this hill."

His answers were short, but yet it didn't feel like he was judging me. If I was being honest, I'd think he was a little sympathetic that I had followed him so far, but that could have been a stretch.

I stood back up, and readjusted my shirt, "that's fine, then."

He let out a soft chuckle, before turning and walking back up the hill. I followed after him, my eyes glued to the horizon. I hoped whatever appeared over this hill, was worth the walk. The climb seemed to take forever, but soon we stood gazing out over an empty plaza.

"Piazza Navona," he said under his breath, the words gently drifting out into the air.

It was a beautiful place, statues of gods and nymphs scattered around the area, yet every single one of them seemed to be connected into one big story. The intricacy of the sculptures made even the smallest statue look so realistic from afar, and the golden sunbeams did it even more justice.

It felt like I was standing in a moment of history.

"This-" I started, unable to describe it in words, "it's beautiful..."

"I know," he nodded.

I turned to look at him, his profile like a silhouette against the sun. the corner of his lips twitched, as he tried to hide a growing smile, but I still noticed it. He cleared his throat, and ran towards the center, his curly hair blasing in the wind behind him.

I ran after him, the cold breeze washing away the heat I had been exposed to earlier. He collapsed on a bench, taking out his pencils and throwing his sketchbook into his lap. I sat down in the space next to him, still enraptured by our surroundings.

"How did you know about this place?" I asked, "I would have never thought to go here."

"It's one of my favorite places to go," he said, grasping the utensil and staring at the sculpture in front of us.

It was a statue of Diana, the Roman depiction of Artemis, who was sculpted carrying an arrow. A marble crown adorned her flowing hair, as she held the weapon with deity and care. It seemed as if she were about to throw it; as if she was alive.

I glanced at Timothee's sketchbook, which was already covered in an array of pencil markings.

"Are you drawing her?" I asked, gazing back at the statue.

"In a way," he murmured.

"In a way?"

"If I were to draw Diana, she must be present in front of me. Instead it's her statue, which is merely her in a different form."

"I never thought about it in that way," I said, "so you're simply sketching her likeness?"

"Exactly," he nodded, stopping to look at me, "I'm surprised you understand."

"Did you expect I wouldn't?"

"In a way," he smirked, turning back to his book.

My phone buzzed in the back of my pocket, and I slipped it out to look at it.

Elliot's name popped on the screen, Everything okay?

"I have to go," I said, flustered, "I forgot about the groceries."

I turned back in the direction we came from, but Timothee's voice called out again, "I can walk you back, if you want."

"It's okay," I smiled, "you should keep drawing."

"You might get lost," he muttered, sticking a pencil in his mouth as he packed up, "you don't know this place as well as I do."

"About that," I questioned, "how do you know your way around here so well? We arrived only yesterday."

He snapped his sketchbook shut again, "I live here."

He brushed past me, heading back towards the hill. I hurried after him, my mind brewing with questions.

"I- I thought you said you lived in New York?" I stammered, "you go to NYU, don't you?"

"I do."

"Then what do you mean, you live here?"

"My parent's own an apartment here," he explained without hesitation, "I come here every summer."

I shook my head, in disbelief, "then how come you can't speak Italian?"

"Look," he sighed, "Language really isn't a top priority for me. I don't usually openly talk to anyone here, but I know the basics."

"The basics?" I challenged, "dove posso trovare il bagno?"

"Nice try," he scoffed, "even if I told you where the bathroom was, you wouldn't need to go. Do you seriously not believe that I live here?"

"Living somewhere means you actively spend your time here," I shrugged, "it just sounds like you own a summer house."

"Well, now I study here. Does that count now?"

His shoes skid against the concrete as we reached the end of the hill, but he kept walking at the fast speed he had originally.

"I suppose," I agreed, "I suppose it does."