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

3 | Armie

Timmy and I can't stop laughing. Luca actually left us rolling around in the grass making out for who knows how long, fucking hell.

"How much time do you think..." I wheeze, clutching my chest and gasping as tears stream down my face in rivulets. "How long do you think we were going at it before he walked away?"

"I don't know," Timmy groans, small body heaving with the force of his laughs.

"Man, this is rich. I'm going to tell this story every chance I get. Shit..."

Whenever our laughter begins to subside, Timmy and I look at each other knowingly and we start all over again. I like the sound of his laugh, like the peal of a hundred little tinkling bells. He's quite the vision of debauchment on top of me, hair hopelessly awry and covered in grass, creamy skin blushing pink and rubbed raw from my stubble.

"Sorry for the beard burn," I wince sympathetically, running my fingers over high cheekbones, slim cheeks, all the dips and curves of his soft face.

Timmy shrugs it off with good nature and pulls one very red, very plush lip between his teeth. His luscious mouth is kiss-swollen, bitten, the crimson shade extending around to his chin and the skin above his upper lip like lipstick stains. We must've been going at it for a while.

"It's cool. I'm just...not used to it, that's all." He's so small and bony in my arms that I feel I have to cradle him with care so as not to crush him.

"Always let me know if I'm hurting you," I insist, brushing a stray curl back from his damp forehead.

"I'm not a child," he mutters, pouting as I run my fingers through his dark, tousled hair. It's honestly a cute sight.

"I know, I know. I'm sorry." I grin, unable to help pinching his cheek. Timmy rolls his eyes but smiles back anyway, light-hearted and cheery as always. I chuckle and pat him gently on the thigh. Timmy gets the message and rolls off of me, allowing me to rise to my feet. We stand up and brush stray grass and twigs and an odd assortment of other things from our legs, stretching out the kinks in our muscles. I think there might be foliage embedded in my back or something. I can't remember the last time I rolled around on the ground making out for this long.

"Should we go find Luca," Timmy wonders aloud, "make sure he's satisfied with it?"

I shrug, genuinely unsure.

"I'm sure we're fine or he would've stopped us again." I'm hoping I'm right, because I didn't read for this role. There was no screening for chemistry; Luca doesn't audition anyone. He just talks to prospective actors and makes the executive decision to go out on a limb and hire according to his judgement, so to fail now would be a betrayal of his implicit trust and confidence in me.

Timmy and I spend the rest of the day after his lessons playing tennis and biking around. At one point, he turns to me on his bike and tells me with a straight face: if only you knew how little I know about the things that matter, and when I laugh he appends: you know what things.

In the evening, we go out to dinner together in the evening. We sit outside on the terrace of the restaurant with a shit-ton of authentic and delicious Italian cuisine. Baked shrimp scampi, fettuccini Alfredo with basil pesto, artichoke gratinata, chicken Parmigiana. The flavours are so rich and exotic and the preparations so dazzlingly colourful, I don't think I can ever go back to the drudgery of American dining.