timothée chalamet requests

☾ request nineteen

your pov

I tossed the tissue into the trash after blowing my nose, relieved that I could finally breathe out it - only for my nostrils to close up again.

Colds are a bitch.

I groaned, reaching for another tissue as a smiley faced Timothée walked into the room.

"Feeling better?" he asked, placing the tray in his hands on top of my nightstand.

"Not really," I say with another groan.

He puts the back of his hand on my forehead.

"You're still warm."

I watch him reach for the bottle of medicine that sits on the tray; next to the bowl of soup I asked him to make.

Soup is all I can keep down at the moment and it doubles as another coat for my sore throat.

He opens up the medicine and pours it into the little cup. I grab it from him and take it with all the strength I have - the taste is revolting.

"Thank you." I say, sipping the glass of water he also brought up.

"You're welcome," he says as I toss my tissue.

I scrunch my face at the itchiness around the bottom of my nose. I try my best not to sneeze, but do so anyway.

"Sorry." I apologize, grabbing yet another tissue from the almost empty box.

"It's okay," he says "don't apologize."

"You shouldn't even be in here," I say, shooing him away with my hand "let alone be taking care of me, I don't want to get you sick."

"I'll be fine," he says again "and if I do get sick, I have enough time off to recover." he reassures.

"Timothée," I sigh "I'm serious."

"Y/n, it's fine," he emphasizes "now let me feed you your soup." he insists.

I rolls my eyes, sitting up straight. Timothée sits right along the edge of the bed, close enough to reach me and the soup.

"Alright." he says grabbing the spoon and putting it into the bowl of soup. He stirs the soup around a bit and lifts the spoon out, cleaning the drip on the bottom of it with the lip of the bowl.

He turns his hand to me steadily. "Here comes the airplane!" he smiles widely, making the both of us laugh at his actions.

The "sound-affect" of an airplane leaves his lips as the spoon approaches mine. I open my mouth up, drinking the soup from it.

His hand immediately returns it back to the soup to pick up another spoonful. "And here comes an-anoth-" he stammers, spoon approaching me.

"ACHOO!" he sneezes loudly. The soup, at a tolerable temperature, thankfully, flicks onto
my face and drips down onto the white sheets.

I watch Timothée recover from his sneeze, his eyes slowly opening up and his mouth just barely dropping open in shock.

He immediately places the spoon into the bowl and pulls out tissues from the box, wiping off my face. "Sorry." he says with a small smile.

And I can't help but do the same as he wipes my face clean with continuous apologies.