Long Timothee Chalamet Stories

He Fell Harder (P5)

Info - crying, switching POV, bullying, mention of blow job, alcohol, self harm, pictures of self harm,

Timothée's POV

I went to the bathroom and panted. Why had I enjoyed that so damn much? I didn't like y/n, but damn had that ever been the best blow job id ever had. She'd actually looked pretty on her knees, desperately pleasuring me.

I ran a hand through my hair. I ran water and splashed my face. Liking her seemed wrong. I was supposed to change when I came here. I'd been a loser, bullied and taken for granted. When I'd become smitten with Bryanna, I realized my opportunity. She was popular, she could be my ticket. We could be the it couple, I could finally be admired and people would be jealous of ME. If I liked y/n.... No, I didn't like her so there was no point of even thinking about it.

Readers POV

I was crying over a blow job. I was pathetic. I was going to give up trying. Sure, I'd probably still have a massive crush on him, but I wasn't going to try. He made it clear he didn't like me, practically hated me. He was an asshole who didn't deserve my care. I was nice, and he was rude.

I took a drink and wandered upstairs. I took a shot and saw a room that drew me in for some reason. I pushed in and realized this was Timothée's room. An electric guitar sat on a stand, film posters hung up on the walls. Its walls were black. His bed looked lumpy and comfortable.

I must have been drunk because I walked in further. I sat down on his bed and smelled his blanket. I knew this was a bit weird of me. On the bed was a yearbook from last year. I wanted to see the kind things people had said to him, some proof that he wasn't a monster.

I opened to the back, and was horrified. Vitriol and abuse was scribbled everywhere. The F slur, curses, cruel jokes, and more. Everyone was celebrating that he was leaving. Every feature of him was mocked, down to his feet. I flipped back to his photo. Gone was the charming smile and fluffy curls. There were no sparkling eyes, or toothy grin. He looked sullen, he definitely had gained some weight since then because he was nearly skeletal. He looked so gloomy it almost seemed as if the photo was in black and white instead of in color.

I flipped some more and some photos spilled out. I sob left my mouth as I realized what they were. It was Timothée's arms, they were bloody. Long cuts up and down his thin forearm. There was also a word, a word carved in his sweet skin. "Worthless."

Just then the door opened. Timothée and I stared at each other and I realized I'd never seen him in short sleeves, even on the muggiest and hottest of days.

"I'm sorry!" I said at the same time he said.

"Bryanna is looking for you."

"I'm drunk, I didn't know what I was doing," I said.

"Were you crying?" He asked as he moved toward me. I was afraid that he'd yell the same insults at me that were in the back of that book.

"Well, it's horrible, I'm so sorry," I said and wiped my eyes. He sat down on the bed next to me. We were quiet and didn't look at one another.

"I don't do it anymore," he said and absentmindedly rubbed his arm. "Two months clean."

"I'm so sorry," was all I could think to say.

"When I get the urge, looking at the pictures can help me, and then I don't do it," he shrugged.

"Timothée you didn't deserve any of that," I said earnestly. "You are funny, cute, smart, brave, and talented and you didn't deserve that."

"Thanks," he mumbled. There was silence again.

"You see, this is why I need Bry," he said in a whisper. "I need her, because I need a win. I need someone to finally like me."

I shut my mouth before saying I did. If he needed Bryanna to stop doing that, I'd help. I'd do anything for him.

"I'll put in a good word as often as I can," I said honestly. He gave me a genuine smile.

"Thanks y/n."