Timothèe Chalamet Imagines

♡never a failure to me♡

Your POV

I know he's upset. I know him better than anyone, and I can practically feel the disappointment radiating from him. He was nominated for six awards tonight, and he didn't win a single one.

Realistically, I wasn't expecting him to win all six. But I am truly shocked that he didn't pull at least one of them. He's so naturally talented, and each of his movies hold important messages and deep meaning.

We're on our way out of the event, saying goodbye to everyone. Timmy is obviously a good actor - he puts on a brave face and smiles as he congratulates people he knows, shaking their hands and reveling in their greatness. But like I said, I know him better than anyone, and I see how his smile doesn't entirely reach his eyes.

His mom, Nicole, is with us tonight as well. We finally make our way out of the building and are escorted down the street to our limo. Just before we get in, she squeezes my shoulder, leans into my ear, and whispers, "Make sure he's okay for me." Timmy doesn't notice; he's too busy trying to ignore the paparazzi. I nod and give her a quick, sad smile. She hugs Timmy goodbye, and continues walking to be escorted to her car. We wish she could stay with us, but she has to fly home tonight.

In the limo, Timmy is mostly silent. We share it with his manager and publicist, who congratulate him on being there in the first place. He still puts on a smile for them, and I wonder if he'll break the act in front of me in the privacy of our own apartment.

We finally get home. He's silent as we walk through the lobby and take the elevator up to our place. When I unlock the door and open it, I realize he's not following me inside. I turn and see him standing at the threshold, his face buried in his hands.

"Oh, Tim. It's okay," I say gently, walking back to him and wrapping my arms around him. He sinks his weight into me, still holding his hands to his face, and presses his forehead into my shoulder.

He doesn't cry often, so when he does, I know that something is truly bothering him.

"Come here," I say, breaking away from him and pulling him inside. He drags his hands away from his face and lets me guide him inside. His eyes are red, his nose is pink, and his cheeks are flushed.

"Jesus, I'm sorry," he says, as he tries to wipe away tears before they fall onto his perfect cheeks.

"Wait here," I say, pointing at the couch. I walk quickly to our kitchen and fill him a glass of water before coming back in. He's slumped back on the couch, sniffling.

"Thanks," he says, taking the water from me.

"Timmy, I'm so sorry that you didn't win. I genuinely don't understand why. I think it was just a coincidental thing," I tell him. I pet his brown curls back from his forehead, trying to comfort him.

"I just... I feel stupid. It's a stupid thing to be upset about. But I just really wanted to win. I feel like a failure," he says.

"You could never be a failure. You're incredible. I know you know that though, and I know that nothing I can say will take away this sting. It sucks, but you're so successful. Everybody loves you. I love you," I tell him.

He nods and takes a sip of his water.

"I love you," he says eventually.

"Come on, lets go take a bath to make you feel better," I say. I hold his hand, running my fingers up the inside of his palm as we walk down the hallway and into our bathroom. I start running the hot water in our bathtub before leaving him standing there, watching the stream of water, to go get towels and clothes to change into.

When I get back, he's still standing in the same place, staring blankly at the water, a hurt and defeated expression painted all over his perfect features.

I start unbuttoning the front of his very fancy suit and help him shrug it off. He leaves it crumpled on the floor. Then take my time unbuttoning each button on his undershirt, making sure to consistently brush my fingers against his bare skin. He unzips his pants and slips his boxers down before climbing into the bath while I slip out of my tiny black dress and underwear.

I position myself against the far side of the bathtub, and he moves so that he faces the same wall as me. He lowers himself so that he's laying on me, his back pressed against my bare chest. I reach up, grab some soap, and start lathering it all over his arms and chest. I wet his curls by running my fingers through them. He closes his eyes and lets me touch him softly.

"I'm so lucky to have you," he says, his eyes still closed.

"I love you Timmy. No matter what happens, you're a never a failure to me," I tell him lovingly.