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

39 | Armie

He's beautiful. With those plush lips and long, raven lashes casting shadows on sharp cheekbones, he's the most extraordinarily beautiful boy I've ever seen. And he's on my arm tonight, all mine. I preen with pride, my smile so wide it hurts my face. But that's just what he does to me, with those maddening bedroom eyes he keeps giving me as if I can get any weaker for him. Daydreams roil in my mind, thoughts of sucking hickeys on every square inch of his slender chest and smooth back and slim, pale neck, of fitting my hands over his perfectly squishable cheeks and loving on them all night long.

How can such an innocent being wreak such malicious havoc on my state of mind? And he knows what he's doing, too. Staring at me whenever he can, smiling at everything I do and say... I could swear he's even panting a little with the anticipation crackling thickly in the air between us. Everyone feels it, the crowds of reporters and celebrities oohing and aahing, the security detail keeping close by at all times - even the people watching on television can clearly see that this boy has me wrapped around his little finger.

We're due to start shooting the next part of the sequel in two weeks, so I won't be in LA for long. The media knows this, and they're scrounging for every minute of my time they can get. But I'm trying to soak up every minute of Timmy's; reaching for his hand whenever I can, peaking over at him when we're apart, crowding in close to whisper to him - which makes fielding the media difficult.

When our jobs for the evening are finally over, I rather shyly suggest that the two of us grab dinner. Liz is looking after the kids, and the friends that accompanied us tonight can make their own plans.

I want another date like the ones we had in Italy.

Timmy smiles dreamily up at me, resting his hands on my chest.

"I'd like that," he says softly. "What're you thinking?"

"Just a nice burger, or a steak..."

"Food," the dwarves chorus, approaching rowdily. "You're making steak, princess?"

Timmy and I exchange knowing grimaces.

"Give a mouse a cookie, huh?"

"Yep. If you feed them once, they never leave," he sighs, forlorn.

Then, turning to the men, he explains, "We're actually planning on eating out tonight. You guys are welcome to join."

The thunderstorm brewing doesn't stop any of us from hitting the town around eight in the evening. It's incredibly hot, the air crackling and charged with the potent storm but humid beyond belief.

Including Ansel, Niki, Pauline and Saoirse, there are over a dozen of us, so we pull up to the grill and bar in several vehicles. We're all laughing, in good spirits. Timmy and I will be leaving soon to work on one of the biggest projects of our careers - though no one ever expected the movies to garner so much attention - so this is our last opportunity to hang out together for a while.

Timmy's wearing denim shorts just long enough to cover his perky little ass and a big t-shirt, his curls shiny with sweat. He's got everyone's heads turning; he's the life of the party and the hottest thing around.

The bar is dimly-lit, the polished wood surfaces awash in the golden glow suffusing the space. Laughter, conversation and the clinking of ice and glasses ring merry. We overcrowd the largest booth, right by the open patio where little, decorative palm trees are swaying in strong gusts of wind.