FUTILE DEVICES  🍑  ───  I.
SOMEWHERE IN NORTHERN ITALY

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The summer Drew arrived was the kind of summer that stretched endlessly, heavy with the scent of sun-warmed cypress and the hum of cicadas. The villa sat like a jewel against the backdrop of rolling hills, its ochre walls kissed by sunlight that painted the afternoons in hues of amber. Clementine Laurent knew this rhythm well—knew the mornings of piano practice that bled into languid afternoons with books, knew the way the fields grew restless with heat, and the way the evening breeze carried whispers of lavender and wild thyme.

She'd spent every summer of her life in this house, this sprawling estate in the Italian countryside that seemed both alive and timeless. And each year, visitors arrived like clockwork, drawn by her father's reputation as a historian and scholar. Clementine had learned to navigate the influx of faces, people who moved through her home like shadows, leaving only faint impressions before disappearing again.

But Drew was different.

It was late morning when she first saw him. Clementine was on the terrace, barefoot, her book forgotten in her lap. Her mother, Sarah, was nearby, fussing with a tray of glasses and the tall pitcher of limonata that would inevitably sweat through the afternoon. Mathis, her father, stood at the edge of the terrace, his eyes fixed on the narrow drive that twisted through the olive groves. He was waiting for Drew.

"Another one of your brilliant assistants," Sarah murmured, her voice a delicate balance of fondness and exasperation. "How long is he staying?"

"Two months," Mathis said without looking at her. "He's one of the best. Young, but exceptionally talented."

Clementine barely listened. She was staring down at the book in her lap, her fingers tracing the worn edge of a page, but her mind wandered with the heat. The sound of a car pulling up the gravel drive jolted her from her daze. She glanced up—and froze.

He stepped out of the car slowly, as if testing the weight of the earth beneath him. Tall, broad-shouldered, and golden in the way only an endless summer could make someone. His buzzed hair caught the sunlight, drawing attention to the sharp lines of his jaw and the striking symmetry of his face. When he looked up toward the house, his features were calm and unreadable, as if he had stepped into a painting he didn't yet know his place in.

Clementine found herself leaning forward, the edges of her book digging into her palms. There was something about him—something in the way he moved, deliberate yet unhurried, that made her think of the figures in old frescoes, the ones that seemed caught mid-motion, their expressions unknowable. His presence unsettled the stillness of the villa, like a breeze stirring a room that had been closed for too long.

"Drew," Mathis called out, his voice cutting through the air like a chord struck on a cello.

Drew turned at the sound, his movements deliberate, and walked toward the terrace. As he approached, Clementine noticed everything: the crisp linen shirt that clung lightly to his frame, the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms that were carelessly sun-kissed, the confident ease in his posture. But it was his eyes that struck her most. They were an unguarded, startling blue—like the sky at its brightest, or the sea when it turned translucent and endless—and they held a quiet intensity that both intrigued and unnerved her.

Their eyes met, and for the briefest moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. Hers, deep brown like fresh chestnuts, wide with curiosity and something she couldn't quite name. His gaze lingered, steady but unreadable, as though he were trying to understand her without giving anything of himself away.

"Welcome," Sarah said, stepping forward with her usual grace.

"Thank you," Drew replied, his voice low, smooth, a perfect match for the ease of his posture.

Mathis clapped a hand on Drew's shoulder, the way he always did with his assistants, as if marking them as part of the family for the time being. "Come inside, we'll get you settled. Clementine, show him his room after he's had something to drink."

Clementine blinked at the sound of her name, the command pulling her out of the quiet observation she hadn't realized she'd fallen into. "Of course," she said, her voice steady but softer than usual.

Drew's gaze flicked toward her again, and this time, there was something almost curious in it, as if he too was assessing her, but cautiously, like one might study a line of verse they couldn't quite decipher.

The midday heat had begun to soften when Clementine led Drew upstairs. He followed her in silence, his footsteps echoing faintly against the terracotta tiles. She glanced back at him once, just briefly, and found him looking at the paintings that lined the hallway—her mother's collection of soft, impressionistic landscapes.

"Your mother's?" he asked, his voice breaking the quiet in a way that felt almost intrusive.

"Yes," she said simply, unsure how much to reveal.

When they reached the guest room, she pushed open the door, and the smell of sun-warmed wood and clean linens greeted them. The windows overlooked the garden, where bursts of color—roses, oleander, bougainvillea—spilled over stone walls like music spilling from an open window.

"This is you," she said, standing awkwardly by the door.

"Thank you," he said, stepping into the room and setting his bag down. His movements were unhurried, deliberate, as if he was taking in every detail, even the ones Clementine didn't think mattered.

She lingered, unsure if she was expected to leave or stay. Drew turned then, meeting her gaze fully for the first time. The weight of it was disarming, steady but not invasive, as if he was trying to see her without making it obvious.

"You've lived here your whole life?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, folding her arms loosely. "Every summer, anyway. The rest of the year we're in Florence."

"Must be nice," he said, though there was no envy in his tone, only a quiet observation.

"It's...quiet," she replied.

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and it startled her how easily it changed his face, softened the sharpness. "I like quiet."

She didn't know what to say to that, so she left.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Over the next few days, Drew settled into the rhythms of the house. Mornings were spent with Mathis in the library, poring over manuscripts with the kind of intensity Clementine had seen in so many of her father's assistants. Afternoons stretched into endless heat, Drew occasionally taking a book out to the garden or joining Sarah on the terrace for coffee.

Clementine watched him in fragments, the way one might observe a bird from a distance—careful not to disturb, curious but wary of being caught. He seemed at ease with everyone except her, and she couldn't decide if that was by design or coincidence.

It wasn't until the third evening that they found themselves alone. The rest of the family had gone into town for dinner, but Clementine stayed behind, claiming a headache she didn't really have. She thought she'd be alone until she stepped onto the terrace and found Drew there, leaning against the railing, a cigarette dangling lazily between his fingers.

"Didn't think anyone else was here," he said without turning around.

She froze for a moment, caught off guard by his presence, before stepping forward. "Neither did I."

He turned then, exhaling a slow stream of smoke that disappeared into the cooling night air. "Do you smoke?"

She shook her head, the words catching in her throat.

"Good," he said, flicking the cigarette into the garden below. "It's a terrible habit."

Clementine didn't know what to make of him—this strange mix of charm and reserve, of casualness that felt anything but careless. They stood in silence for a while, the night settling around them like a blanket, and she found herself painfully aware of the space between them, of the things left unsaid.

When he finally spoke again, his voice was softer. "You're not like them, are you?"

She frowned, confused. "What do you mean?"

"The others," he said, gesturing vaguely toward the house. "You don't talk much."

"I prefer to listen," she said, a bit defensively.

Drew nodded, as if this answer satisfied him. "Listening's underrated."

And with that, he left, disappearing into the house without another word, leaving Clementine alone with the strange ache of his absence.

From that little moment on, the days unfolded like pages of an ancient book, sun-stained and slow, the kind that begged to be savored. Yet, every moment Drew occupied seemed to pulse with a quiet electricity that Clementine couldn't ignore. He moved through the villa as though he'd always belonged there, his presence weaving into the fabric of her days with an ease that both intrigued and unsettled her.

She began to notice the little things first: the slight tilt of his head when he listened, the faint crease between his brows when he concentrated, the way his shirts clung to his back, dampened by the unforgiving heat of the afternoons. He had a way of existing in a room that felt deliberate, as though the air bent itself around him, leaving every shadow and beam of light rearranged in his wake.

Clementine told herself it was just curiosity. Of course she'd notice him; he was new, and newness had a way of demanding attention. But deep down, she knew it was more than that. Drew wasn't just occupying space in her home—he was occupying her thoughts, slipping into them when she least expected it, leaving behind an ache she didn't know how to name.

It was her mother who suggested the swim. "The heat's unbearable today," Sarah said, fanning herself lazily from her perch on the terrace. "Why don't you take Drew down to the river, Clem? Show him where you go."

Clementine hesitated, glancing toward Drew, who was sitting at the table, thumbing idly through one of Mathis's books. His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the barest glimpse of tanned skin, and a faint sheen of sweat glistened along his temple.

She hated how aware she was of him.

"It's not far," she said reluctantly, her voice measured.

Drew looked up, his blue eyes meeting hers, and for a moment, she thought she caught a flicker of something in his gaze—amusement, perhaps, or curiosity. "Lead the way," he said simply, standing with that easy grace of his that made her stomach tighten.

They walked in near silence, the cicadas filling the air with their incessant hum. Clementine led the way, her bare feet brushing against the dry, warm grass, and Drew followed a few steps behind, his presence a steady weight against her back. She had thrown on her usual swimming attire: a simple black one-piece that hugged her shoulders and waist snugly, modest yet elegant in its simplicity. Drew had changed into pale blue swim shorts, frayed slightly at the edges, as if they had seen too many summers by the sea.

The river came into view slowly, its surface shimmering like liquid glass under the midday sun. Clementine stepped onto the smooth stones at the edge, the coolness seeping through the soles of her feet. She turned, expecting Drew to hesitate, but he was already pulling his shirt over his head with a fluid motion that made her breath catch.

His torso was lean but strong, his muscles taut in that way that suggested strength without excess. His skin bore faint freckles across his shoulders, and his chest glistened faintly in the sunlight. Clementine quickly turned away, focusing instead on the water, though her pulse quickened at the sound of his footsteps behind her.

The river embraced her like an old friend as she slipped in, the coolness a balm against the relentless heat. Drew followed, diving in with a splash that sent ripples skimming across the surface. When he surfaced, his buzzed hair clung closely to his head, droplets tracing paths down his neck and shoulders. His expression was unreadable—serene, perhaps, or contemplative. She wished she could look at him longer without giving herself away.

For a while, they swam in silence, the water cocooning them in its quiet sanctuary. Clementine floated on her back, her eyes fixed on the sky, but her awareness of Drew was inescapable, as if the river itself conspired to keep them tethered.

When he spoke, his voice broke the stillness like a stone skipping across the surface. "Do you always come here alone?"

She turned, treading water to face him. He was closer than she expected, his gaze steady and unflinching. "Usually," she said, her voice softer than she intended.

He nodded, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in a faint, enigmatic smile. "It suits you."

She frowned. "What does?"

"The solitude," he said, his tone light but his eyes serious.

She didn't know what to say to that, so she turned and swam away, the water dragging against her limbs like an anchor.

Later that night, it was Mathis who suggested the chess game that evening, pulling out the ancient wooden board that had sat unused on the library shelf for years. Clementine was reluctant, but Drew accepted the challenge with an ease that grated against her nerves.

The board was set up in the garden, the fading light casting long shadows across the grass. Drew sat across from her, leaning back in his chair with a confidence that felt almost mocking. His blue eyes lingered on her as though daring her to meet his gaze.

"You play often?" he asked as she moved her pawn.

"Enough," she said curtly.

He smirked, and the expression made her want to both slap him and stare at him forever. "We'll see."

The game began, slow and deliberate, each move a silent exchange that seemed to carry more weight than the wooden pieces should. Clementine found herself hyper-aware of everything—of the way Drew's fingers brushed the edge of a rook before moving it, of the slight furrow in his brow when she made a particularly clever move, of the heat that lingered in the air between them despite the coolness of the evening.

"You're good," he said after a while, his tone thoughtful.

"I know," she replied, meeting his gaze with more defiance than she felt.

He laughed softly, the sound low and rich, and it sent a strange thrill through her. "Confidence looks good on you."

Her cheeks burned, and she hated that he could unsettle her so easily. She focused on the board, on the pieces, on anything but the man sitting across from her with that infuriating smile.

But when she finally won, trapping his king with an elegant sweep of her bishop, she allowed herself a small smile of triumph.

"Well played," he said, leaning back in his chair, his expression unreadable.

"You underestimated me," she said, her tone lighter now, emboldened by her victory.

"Maybe," he said, his gaze flickering toward her. "Or maybe I just wanted to see you win."

She opened her mouth to respond, but the words caught in her throat. Drew stood then, stretching lazily, and offered her a hand to help her up. She hesitated before taking it, his touch warm and firm, and for a moment, the world seemed to narrow to just that single point of contact.

"Goodnight, Clementine," he said, his voice soft but laced with something she couldn't quite name.

And then he was gone, leaving her alone in the garden, the chessboard still set between them like an unanswered question.

The more time they spent in each other's orbit, the more Clementine became acutely aware of the tension that simmered beneath the surface. It was in the way Drew's gaze lingered just a second too long, in the way he brushed past her in the hallway, his hand grazing hers as though by accident.

She told herself it was nothing, that she was imagining it, but the feeling persisted, a quiet hum that thrummed through her whenever he was near.

And yet, he remained distant, his demeanor easy but guarded, as if he was deliberately keeping her at arm's length. It frustrated her, this push and pull, this unspoken game that seemed to play out between them without rules or resolution.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The days spilled forward in the endless rhythm of summer. Drew was everywhere—on the terrace in the early morning with a notebook in hand, cycling into town in the blistering sun, joining Mathis in the study for hours of intense discussion about the subject Clementine only half understood, a subject she'd long since learned to tune out when her father started to ramble. And yet, despite his omnipresence, there was always a sense of elusiveness about him. Drew didn't belong to the house, or the river, or even the hours spent with Mathis; he belonged to himself, moving with a confidence that hinted at some private joke the rest of them weren't in on.

Clementine tried not to notice him. Or, at least, she tried to convince herself she wasn't noticing him. But the truth was she saw too much. She noticed how Drew leaned against doorframes, all casual indifference, yet somehow the room would seem to orbit him. She noticed the way he always managed to find her in the house's chaos, his eyes brushing hers for just a moment before flicking away. She noticed the faint tan lines on his forearms, the soft buzz of his hair catching the light like wheat fields in the sun, the curve of his jaw when he laughed.

But it was his silence that struck her most. Drew wasn't silent in the way some men were—sullen, repressed, detached. His silence felt deliberate, like an artist working in negative space, crafting meaning through absence. When Drew didn't speak, Clementine found herself leaning forward, hungry to hear the next word. She hated that about herself. She hated the way he could make her feel so desperate to decode him.

Then, one afternoon, Mathis suggested a trip into town, a brief escape from the villa's endless stillness. Drew had readily agreed, but Clementine had resisted until her mother insisted.

"Go with him, Clem. Show him where to get decent fruit," Sarah had said, her tone light but pointed. Clementine had no excuse to refuse.

The bike ride into town began under the punishing heat of the late afternoon sun. The dirt road shimmered in the distance, the air thick with the drone of cicadas and the occasional rustle of leaves in the windless quiet. Clementine rode slightly behind Drew, her bike's old gears grinding with every turn of the pedals. Drew's pace was unhurried, his back straight and confident, the faint sheen of sweat on the back of his neck catching the sunlight. His white linen shirt, loosely buttoned and billowing slightly in the breeze, gave him the look of someone effortlessly at ease, even in the sweltering heat.

She couldn't help but notice the shape of him—the lean muscles in his arms, the slight tension in his shoulders as he gripped the handlebars. There was a poetry to the way he moved, as though every action were deliberate, each motion a quiet declaration of who he was.

"Slow down," she called, breathless as her bike skidded over a patch of gravel. "Not all of us are Olympians."

Drew glanced over his shoulder with a smirk. "I thought you were supposed to be showing me the way," he said, slowing just enough to let her catch up.

When they rode side by side, their arms almost brushing, Clementine felt the air between them grow heavier. She told herself it was the heat, the sticky warmth pressing down on her, but she knew better. She could feel it in the way Drew's gaze lingered on her for a moment too long before looking back to the road.

"I don't do this often," Clementine said after a long silence, her voice cutting through the rhythm of cicadas and crunching gravel. "Bike rides. Or... entertaining house guests."

Drew raised an eyebrow, his smirk deepening. "I wouldn't call myself a guest," he said. "More like an inconvenience you've been forced to tolerate."

"You said it, not me," she replied, her lips curving into a reluctant smile.

Drew laughed, the sound low and warm, and for a moment the tension eased, the silence between them replaced by something lighter. But it didn't last long. It never did.

When they finally got to the market, the air was alive with the hum of voices, the clink of coins, the bright colors of ripe produce spilling out of baskets. Drew wandered through the stalls with the same quiet curiosity he carried everywhere, stopping to inspect a pile of figs with a casual deliberation that seemed uniquely his.

"These are better than the ones at the villa," he said, tossing a peach lightly in his hand before holding it out to her.

Clementine stared at the peach for a moment before taking it. Their fingers brushed, and it was nothing—just skin against skin—but her stomach tightened anyway. "You don't like the ones we have?" she asked, more defensive than she intended.

"They're fine," he replied, his lips quirking into that infuriating half-smile. "But these are better."

She looked away, irritated by how easily he could unsettle her. "You sound like my father."

Drew tilted his head, considering her. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

Clementine didn't respond. She turned and walked ahead, the peach still cradled in her hand, the sticky sweetness of its skin warming beneath her fingers.

The ride back to the villa was slower, the sun dipping low on the horizon, bathing the landscape in molten gold. Clementine was quieter now, the air between her and Drew heavy with unspoken words. He rode beside her this time, their arms brushing every so often, and each accidental touch sent a jolt through her that she tried desperately to ignore.

"Do you ever think about leaving?" Drew asked suddenly, his voice low, almost hesitant.

She glanced at him, startled. "Leaving where?"

"This place. The villa. The town. Everything."

Clementine hesitated. The question felt too close to something she couldn't name, something she wasn't sure she wanted to confront. "Sometimes," she admitted. "But I don't know where I'd go."

Drew nodded, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. "I think about it all the time," he said. "Leaving. Starting over. But it's not that simple, is it?"

"No," she said softly. "It's not."

For a moment, the world seemed to fall away, the road narrowing to just the two of them, the rhythm of their bikes and the weight of Drew's words. Clementine wanted to ask him more—where he'd go, what he'd leave behind—but the questions stuck in her throat, too heavy to speak aloud.

When they reached the villa, the sun had dipped below the horizon, the sky a wash of deep blues and purples. Drew dismounted his bike with an easy grace, offering her a hand as she struggled with the stubborn kickstand on hers. Their fingers brushed again, and this time, she didn't pull away as quickly.

"Thanks," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Drew smiled, and for a moment, it felt like the world had paused, the tension between them humming like a taut string ready to snap.

But then he stepped back, the moment dissolving as quickly as it had come. Clementine watched him walk inside, her heart still racing, and wondered how someone could feel so close yet so impossibly far away.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Nights at the villa was always an event, a ritual as ancient and unchanging as the landscape itself. The long wooden table under the pergola was set with care, the faded blue linens and mismatched plates bearing the wear of countless summers. Lanterns hung above, their warm light catching on the rims of wine glasses and illuminating the spreading vines overhead. The scent of rosemary, garlic, and wood smoke lingered in the air, mingling with the faint tang of salt drifting from the nearby river.

Clementine sat at one end of the table, across from Drew, who was angled slightly toward her father, Mathis. He was deep in discussion about something or other—one of those topics that came alive only in her father's world of academic passions, all long-winded theories and sharp opinions. Drew listened attentively, nodding occasionally, his body relaxed but his focus sharp. Every so often, he'd interject with a question or comment, his voice even, measured. Mathis seemed impressed, leaning in with the kind of animated engagement Clementine rarely saw from him.

Her mother, Sarah, sat between them, chiming in here and there with a wry remark or a soft laugh. She had an ease about her that Clementine envied—an ability to hold her own without needing to dominate, to be both present and unobtrusive. Clementine, meanwhile, stayed quiet, her fork tracing idle patterns in her risotto. She didn't want to compete with Drew for her father's attention, nor did she want to draw any attention to herself.

But even in her silence, she couldn't stop watching him.

The lantern light softened the sharp lines of Drew's face, casting faint shadows across his jaw. His hair, still damp from the afternoon swim, clung close to his head, highlighting the contours of his skull. He wore a loose, white button-up shirt, the top few buttons undone, exposing the hollow of his throat and the faint tan of his collarbone. The sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms that were lean but strong, the veins faintly visible beneath his sun-bronzed skin.

She noticed everything: the way his fingers curled around the stem of his wineglass, the slight twitch of his jaw when he smiled, the way his gaze flicked briefly toward her every so often, as if checking to see if she was still there. Each glance sent a shiver down her spine, a heat pooling low in her stomach. She hated it—the way he made her feel both invisible and completely seen, like a secret that wasn't hers to tell.

"Clem," Sarah said suddenly, breaking her reverie. "What do you think?"

Clementine blinked, realizing she hadn't been listening. "About what?" she asked, her voice too sharp, too defensive.

Mathis chuckled. "About the new proposal Drew suggested for the project. Were you not paying attention?"

"Sorry," she mumbled, her cheeks flushing. "I was... distracted."

Drew's eyes met hers then, just for a second, and there was something in his gaze—amusement, perhaps, or curiosity—that made her throat tighten.

"No worries," he said smoothly, his voice low, warm. "It wasn't that interesting."

His words were casual, but the way he said them felt pointed, like he knew exactly what she'd been distracted by. She looked away, her fingers tightening around her glass.

Later that night, the villa settled into its familiar quiet after dinner. Mathis retreated to his study, Sarah to the sitting room with a book and a glass of wine. Clementine wandered out to the terrace, the stone cool beneath her bare feet. The night air was thick and fragrant, heavy with the scent of jasmine and earth still warm from the day's sun. She leaned against the balustrade, staring out at the darkness beyond—the faint outline of the hills, the distant shimmer of the river under the moonlight.

She heard him before she saw him—the soft creak of the terrace door, the quiet rhythm of his steps. She didn't turn, but she knew it was Drew. She could feel him in the way the air seemed to shift, the space between them crackling with the kind of tension that had been building for days, weeks, maybe longer.

He stopped a few feet away, just out of reach. She could feel his gaze on her, the weight of it like a hand pressing against her skin.

"Couldn't sleep?" he asked, his voice quiet, almost tentative.

She shook her head, her fingers tightening on the stone railing. "No. You?"

"No."

The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy. She wanted to say something—anything—to break it, but her thoughts were a tangle of emotions she couldn't untangle. Instead, she focused on the sound of the river, the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze, the soft hum of cicadas.

"I'm sorry about earlier," he said finally, his voice softer now. "At dinner. I didn't mean to—"

"It's fine," she interrupted, too quickly. "I wasn't upset."

He didn't respond right away. When he spoke again, his tone had shifted, the teasing edge replaced by something quieter, more serious. "You seem different here. At dinner, I mean. Like you're... holding back."

She turned to face him then, startled by the honesty in his voice. He stood a few feet away, his hands in his pockets, his shirt untucked now, hanging loose over his jeans. His gaze met hers, steady and searching, and for a moment she felt like he could see straight through her, past the layers of carefully constructed indifference she wore like armor.

"I don't know what you mean," she said, but the words felt hollow even as she spoke them.

Drew stepped closer, his movements slow, deliberate. He stopped just short of her, close enough that she could see the faint stubble on his jaw, the way the moonlight caught the blue of his eyes.

"Yes, you do," he said quietly.

Her breath caught, her chest tightening as the distance between them seemed to shrink, even though neither of them moved. She wanted to say something, to deflect, to turn away, but she couldn't. She was trapped in his gaze, in the heat of the moment, in the unspoken tension that had been building between them since the day they met.

And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the moment ended. Drew stepped back, his expression unreadable, his hands still buried in his pockets.

"Goodnight, Clementine," he said, his voice soft, almost regretful.

She watched him walk away, her heart pounding, her skin tingling with the ghost of something that had never quite happened. When the terrace door clicked shut behind him, she exhaled, the sound shaky, uneven.

Alone under the stars, Clementine closed her eyes and let the night press in around her, heavy and suffocating and impossibly alive.

━━━━━ author's note !
first chapter is out !!! i didn't waste no time bringing this to life as i watched call me by your name again last evening for inspo, lol

honestly drew being oliver just....makes sense.

let me know what you think and give a little star 🌟 if you like! interact pls i would really appreciate to know that you think about the story

thanks for the attention 💗