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

5 | Armie

By the time our apartment comes into view, Timmy is passed out in my arms like a sack of potatoes. Energy sapped from the late hour and the incessant making out and the mad dash through town and the craziness of the whole evening, I stumble up to the threshold and struggle to open the apartment door. My arms ache, straining from the weight of the boy on one arm and the clothes clutched in the other.

I like carrying Timmy around like this. Hanging from my body, he spills against me with slim arms wrapped tight around my neck and head lolling against my shoulder. Drifting in and out of consciousness like nothing matters because he has me, he's safe in my arms, and heaven knows that I would die before I let any harm befall him.

He's too fucking cute going all spider monkey on me like this, limbs wrapped tightly around mine in a death-grip. I don't care anymore that we're naked; I just want to get up to my room. Luckily, though, the halls are deserted, and I take the elevator upstairs with no witnesses.

I drop a kiss into the unruly mop of chocolate-coloured hair beneath my nose and Timmy stirs against me, semi-conscious now.

"Armie," he mutters.

He's delirious with exhaustion, completely spent in my arms.

"Mhm. I'm here," I assure him as he looks up at me with those big, shiny eyes.

"I'm going to run us a bath," I murmur, finally inside the refuge of my room.

Timmy is completely unresponsive as I maneuver his lithe form into the tub with me. He sticks to me like a second skin, making it difficult to clean either one of us, but I don't mind. He lies limp while I shampoo his hair, being extra careful not to get any in his eyes, lifting his scrawny arms cooperatively to help me scrub everywhere on his body. His lips protrude in a pout when I tell him it's time to get out, and he refuses to budge.

"Come on." I chuckle and press a kiss to his temple. "Up."

As soon as we step out of the water, I wrap his shivering form in a fluffy white towel. I dry his tousled hair, rubbing down the smooth slope of his back, along the curve of his bum, his arms and his long legs, all the while keeping the sleepy beauty as close as I can to my body. He preens like a cat under my tender ministrations.

Timmy doesn't want to sleep with clothes on, but I'm afraid he'll catch a cold otherwise, so I wrestle him into the smallest shirt I can find in my closet and find one for myself. Then I hoist him back up in my arms, his legs automatically locking around my waist, and take him to bed. As soon as we're under the covers, Timmy ducks under my loose shirt where he must feel he belongs and falls asleep with his protruding head tucked under mine.

•••

When I awake, Timmy is draped over my body, our legs entwined under the sheets and his arms tucked under mine, fingers splayed over my shoulders. He's light but weighs enough to anchor me down on the bed, skin warm and silky smooth against mine. I tuck my face into the unruly mop of dark curls adorning his head and press my lips into the softness.

"Hey," I whisper, voice coarse and groggy with sleep. Silence, save for the rustling of sheets, soft and muted. The hushed, dulcet tones of sunshine splash over the floor, the bed, our bodies. Something creaks, the villa awakening in the morning wind. Leaves rustle, birds chatter in nearby treetops. The bedspread is soft, smelling like pine and summer and apricots and Italy, like silk between my fingertips. Timmy's hair smells good. I map the pronounced ridges of his spine with my fingertips.