Timothèe Chalamet Imagines

❁ figure it out ❁

Your POV

Cocktail dresses. Flowery perfumes. Potent red wines. Delicate finger foods.

This is what my boss' start-of-the-work-year evening party looks like.

Timothée and I usually aren't the fanciest people. We go out to nice places occasionally, but we're not used to such... adult... events. It's a strange gap to bridge between being blissfully young and partying almost every night, and attending your boss' fancy party and trying to socialize with real adults.

I just started my new job, and this world is so foreign to me. I'm trying to force conversation, use the right words, and seem put together. I want everyone to think I'm full of potential. It's a lot of pressure.

I'm standing near the windows, clutching an expensive red wine that I honestly couldn't differentiate from a boxed one, talking to a woman in another department. She looks incredible. A silk, black dress drapes around her frame and her hair is pinned up in a twist, but not in a boring, classy way. I'm trying to hold conversation, but Timothèe left my side and I have no idea where he went.

We were just standing there, talking to someone about the comeback of real journalism. He's perfect in these situations. He nods at the right times, laughs at the right times, and never inserts himself when he shouldn't. He's charming, and everyone loves him, and in turn, they love me even more. He lets me do the talking because this is my party and he's my plus one. And he gives me more confidence - just his presence - while I'm talking to all of these intimidating people. It's like he has an aura of assurance that truly resonates with me.

But he disappeared about five minutes ago, and I have no idea where he went. When I'm finally done talking to this woman, I excuse myself from the big, crowded living room, setting my wine down on a table next to me. This is a very large space for an NYC apartment, but I suppose my boss can afford it, being in charge of The New Yorker and all.

I scan the room, (to the best of my ability because I'm short, and even heels don't make any kind of improvement), one final time before determining that I don't see his curls in the sea of heads before me. I walk down the hallway behind me and decide that I'll go to the bathroom to text him. I swing the bathroom door open, simultaneously reaching in my purse to pull out my phone, and I'm mortified when I realize that someone is already in there.

"Oh my - I'm so sorry - Timmy?" My embarrassment quickly dies down as I realize that it's Timmy sitting on the toilet, his knees hugged close to his body. He looks strange all scrunched up like that. He's so tall that his pants hang around the middle of his shins in this position, revealing his long black adidas socks. They were the "fanciest" that he had.

I shut the door behind me quickly and step inside.

"What are you doing in here? I've been looking for you. I can't survive out there withou - hey, what's that?"

He looks up at me, and then looks down at the bottle in his large hand. It's a mini Fireball. I squint my eyes to see his face better. His cheeks are flushed. His eyes are wild.

"Are you - are you drinking? At my boss' fancy party?" I whisper it with exasperation.

He smiles stupidly and nods, dropping the empty bottle in the trash can next to him.

"Timothèe, what the fuck?! What are you doing?!" I want to raise my voice more than anything, but I obviously can't.

"I dunno. I was feeling anxious," he says drearily. He rubs his eyes and puts his feet on the ground, uncurling his body.

"Why? Why are you doing this? You can't go out there! How long have you been drinking tonight? Twenty minutes ago..." my voice goes from venomous frustration to extreme confusion. Twenty minutes ago he seemed fine. He was standing next to me quietly as I talked to people.