Calling Him By My Name [Armie Hammer + Timothée Chalamet | Charmie | mxb]

2 | Timothée

I wake up with my eye this close to Armie Hammer's nipple.

This close.

My cheek is pressed flat against his warm, toned chest and we're sprawled in the most uncomfortable position - half slouching, half lying down - at the foot of the bed. Sunlight spills through the French windows of the room, pooling in a balmy, lemon-yellow patch on the hardwood and landing in a square on my face. I scrunch my eyes up and take a moment to critically reassess my life.

I'm just a kid. I'm just another broke young actor dreaming of making it big while living in a shoebox in New York and working two, sometimes three, jobs at a time to get by. That's who I was yesterday: nobody. But today I am sprawled across Armie freaking Hammer, cheek plastered against his warm, slightly hairy chest, a strong arm clutching me close and my eye staring directly at a dark, perky nipple.

Huh.

I shrug noncommittally and go back to sleep.

•••

The next time I'm roused from my slumber, it's to Armie blinking bleary eyes down at me and rubbing my shoulder in a halfhearted attempt to wake me.

"Morning," I mumble.

His brown lashes flutter sleepily and he's smiling a slow, lazy smile. My first impression of him - which was man, this guy is huge - is reaffirmed now that I'm wrapped in his big arms, feeling very small and very safe.

"I guess we fell asleep," he slurs. Startling blue eyes blink down at me. He's a dreamy dude; even a straight guy can admit that.

"I guess we did."

My sensory receptors seem to awaken one by one, an electric current of awareness blooming in steady progression from my head down to my toes. First, my head. Nestled against Armie's throat, sandwiched in the juncture of his neck and shoulder, with his cheek resting atop my curls. Blinking, I bask in the rich closeup of golden skin with a light dusting of brown hair, slightly flushed from sleep. Warm, musky, kind of sweaty from the muggy weather and our combined body heat. Synapses continue firing down to my torso, which is presently pressed snug against his side, skin to skin where my shirt has rucked up in my sleep, plastered to him by a thin film of perspiration. His body hair is coarse against my smooth skin. Then there are my legs, skinny and white, tangled in long, golden limbs which are roped with muscle yet slim and toned and also covered in a fine smattering of golden hair. And then there's the warmth. Whether he's a furnace when he sleeps or if the morning is just this hot I don't know.

"Shit, I'm going to be in pain all day. You too." Armie groans as he sits up and relieves the tension from his neck with a satisfying pop. "Next time we're sleeping on the bed."

So that's decided, then.

There's something authoritative and demanding about his persona that brooks no arguments or questions. Probably his movie star status. Armie ruffles my hair as he stands up, and I think as he unfolds his massive frame that it could just be the height.

He casts a glance at the wall clock over the TV screen.

"Well, I have nothing to do today," Armie yawns, rolling his shoulders. "Why don't we go swimming?"