When In Rome ► Timothée Chalamet

19 | Violins and Violas

Y/N

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I didn't realize how bad it really was.

The sun had already disappeared from the sky, a dark blanket already covering the city. The soft hum of passing strangers on the sidewalk floated through the dorm window, Roman nightlife already ensuing.

I had been sitting at the table, working away on the essay for hours, a few words away from being finished. Finished with the rough draft, that is. I failed to see the consequences of not paying attention in class, and they came back and hit me straight in the face.

My grammar was a mess, some words weren't spelled correctly, and I seemed to be losing grip on proper phonetics. Somehow I managed to pick up Italian slang over the past month.

"I quit," I sighed, tossing my pen on the table, "I can't finish this in time."

The writing untencils' clatter against the table must have gotten Elliot's attention, because he poked his head out from the kitchen to see what the fuss was.

"What's up?" he asked, wiping his greasy hands on his apron, and looking at the paper in front of me, "and what's that?"

"An Italian language essay," I frowned, "It's due tomorrow, and I'm not even close to finishing it."

The boy pulled up a chair, and glanced at the clock. It read 10:47, well into the evening.

"You've still got time," he said, "it's not midnight yet."

"But it will be soon," I frowned, "not to mention I have to get at least some sleep."

"Hey, you're doubting yourself. You know you can finish this if you set your mind on it, so try doing that instead."

"Easy for you to say," I sighed, "I can't focus."

"Why?"

For a moment my mind flashed back to the classroom, Enzo telling me to stay away from Timothee. Even though he claimed that wasn't what he meant, it was obvious he did. I hated being put in this situation, stuck in a moral fork in the road. It's me or him, basically. Do what's best for myself, or do what's best for Timothee.

And I knew I had to choose myself.

"Nothing," I said, "it's not that big of a deal."

"I highly doubt that," he said, getting up from his chair, "but I'll trust you."

He started to head back into the kitchen, but I stopped him. It was a sudden question, but I needed to know the answer. I needed the comfort of knowing I wasn't the odd-one out when it came to this.

"Do you ever feel like you've lost touch with your art?" I said, staring blankly at the table.

"What do you mean?"

"Somedays I feel like I'm slowly distancing myself from learning the language," I explained, "I haven't given it the attention I should be giving it, and some days I just don't feel like speaking it."

Elliot paused, mulling it over. Of course, my language major didn't apply to him, but I hoped he'd understand what I meant anyways.

"Well, yeah," he nodded, crossing his arms against his chest, "I guess for me, some days I don't feel like playing the violin."

"But how do you come back from that?" I asked, "It's like I hit writer's block, for speaking."

"You want my honest opinion?"