Timothèe Chalamet Imagines

✩sick day✩

Your POV

I groan in frustration when I feel the bed shift once again, and the covers are thrown over me.

I sit up in the dark, feeling groggy and sleep-deprived.

"Timothée," I whisper, "do you have to keep moving around like that?" I ask bitterly.

He doesn't answer, and through the dark, I see his eyes barely open.

"'Msorry..." he grumbles. His voice sounds... sore.

I instantly feel bad for snapping at him in a moment of frustration fueled by my own exhaustion.

"What's wrong?" I ask more gently.

"I don't feel good."

I squint to see him better in the dark. He's laying flat on his back, his mouth hanging open, his heavy eyelids beginning to close again. His shallow breaths leave his mouth, alluding to a stuffy nose.

This doesn't last long, because when he breaths in again, he starts coughing like crazy. He sits up slowly and brings one hand to his chest, scrunching up his face in pain. Even I flinch at the sound of his coughs; they sound horrible.

"Hey, hey, just lay back down," I tell him, reaching over and gently easing him back down onto his pillows. When he's laying on his side, both hands placed under his cheek, I press my hand to his forehead. It's hot, and a thin layer of sweat coats his skin. He hisses at the feeling of my cool hand against his forehead.

I look over to the alarm clock and check the time. It's 3:38am. I panic thinking about waking up in a few hours before I realize that tomorrow is Saturday, and neither of us have any obligations.

"Let me go get you some water and medicine," I tell him, sliding off of the bed. He hums in response - a sick version of 'thank you'.

I return moments later with a glass of cool water and some ibuprofen, hoping it will push out his fever.

He looks asleep, but he opens his eyes when he hears me walk over to the bed. I hold them out and he sits up slowly, taking them gratefully. He coughs after swallowing the pills, shakily holding the water out to me with one hand and coughing into his other arm. I take it from him and quickly get on the bed, sitting on my knees and wrapping my arms gently around him as he hunches over and coughs into my shoulder.

I know it's irrational, but every time he gets sick, I worry. Even though this is just a cold, or a fever or something. It stresses me out, and I can't push that anxiety down while he's pressing his forehead against my shoulder, recovering from his cough attack. I gently run my hands over his back, and he readjusts so that his cheek is resting against my shoulder, his head turned to the side. His shallow breaths are hot against my chin, and the curls near his forehead that are damp with sweat stick lightly to my cheek.

I don't care that he's sick and most likely passing it on to me. I just want to hold him like this until he feels better. He has different plans though, and he slowly leans back as if to tell me he wants to lay down again. I unwrap my arms from him as he falls back to his pillow, and I lay down next to him so that our faces are inches from each other.

"You're gonna get sick if you lay this close to me," he says, his eyes closed.

"I don't care," I whisper.

I reach over and pull each sticky curl away from his forehead, pushing his hair back gently.

He is asleep in no time, and eventually, I am too.

***

I wake up to Timmy's heavy head laying on my stomach. It's warm and comforting - like the security a weighted blanket would provide.