Chapter Text
It starts, as most things with the Perlmans do in the recent years, with a letter. There is always a brief hesitation before Oliver opens it; a quick pit falling in his stomach. Does he dare open the letter? Does he immerse himself once again in the summer that he left long ago but has never quite left him ? Does he open himself up to the pain, the hurt, the regret ? Because try as he might, and as much as he allows himself to admit to himself in the light of the day, there is regret.
(There is also the briefest moment in which Oliver hopes beyond hopes that the letter is from Elio, though he never has gotten one from him before.)
Oliver taps the unopened letter against the dry seam of his lips thoughtfully. It’s silly, but even after the days or weeks in the Italian postal system and then American one, Oliver swears he can smell the faintest traces of apricot.
He tears open the letter and leans back in his kitchen table chair.
Dear Oliver, it reads in the professor’s unmistakable scratch writing. Oliver feels a flicker of disappointment and then a bloom of warmth for the father he wishes could have been his.
The professor greets him in his exuberant way and then asks about his health, that of his wife’s, his job. He details what life is like in Milan nearly three years after Oliver has last seen any member of the family. He updates Oliver on the state of his newest book and gives his thoughts on Oliver’s finally published manuscript.
Most of the letter is that; making Oliver feel as though he is still important, still apart of the Perlman family, even as he never truly was.
At the end of the letter, the professor signs his name and just below it:
Proud : from the Latin “prodesse”, meaning of value to one. And then the French, “prud”, meaning valiant.
And below that, I’ve attached a newspaper clipping. Be proud. He certainly is of you, even if the goose won’t admit it. As am I.
Oliver slides a worn newspaper clip from it’s paperclip prison and sets aside the letter. His eyes take in the headline and-
And. Oliver has to smile. He has to chuckle because if he didn’t he might weep.
Italian Piano Prodigy Stuns Carnegie Hall