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

4 | Timothée

I groan awake way too early at the shrill sound of a phone ringing. Whining my discontentment, I nestle closer to Armie, one big hand rubbing reassuringly up and down my back while the other reaches for his cell phone on the nightstand. Who the fuck is calling at this hour? My eyelids feel heavy like lead and the inside of my mouth is dry and gritty from sleep. It's still pouring outside, the soft patter of rain against the windows a soothing and steadfast melody like the heartbeat beneath my cheek.

It's warm. But the early morning weather is nothing compared to the soporific heat of the large body beneath me, wrapped around me. His shirt is still pressed snug against my back, my front plastered to a firm, hairy chest that smells like warm vanilla sugar and sandalwood and rain-kissed leaves and man.

Armie's morning voice is syrup over gravel as he answers the phone and greets his wife, and I think vaguely that this is his first contact with home since he arrived in Italy; something about not ruining the immersive experience. Or time difference or phone bills or whatever.

I'm too tired to keep my eyes open, much less process anything more than the deep, grating melody of Armie's voice, dragging me back under the waves of sleep with its soft, lyrical quality. I drift in and out of consciousness, swathed in hot skin like melted gold and tickled by long brown lashes that kiss my cheeks whenever Armie blinks, until my alarm clock goes off.

"Good morning, sunshine." Armie rouses me from sleep with a soft, lopsided grin.

I laugh at that and he joins in, neither of us feeling like getting out of bed. It's too fucking comfortable.

"What time is it," I grin, rubbing my nose in the thatch of curls on his sculpted chest. At some point, Armie must have removed his shirt to free me from the constraints of the tight fabric. The position of the shadows in the room and the sunshine spilling in from a now cloudless sky indicates that it's almost time for my Italian lessons.

"Mm. Six twenty-two." Armie doesn't seem to be hungover, even though he got Armie Hammered the other night. Damn him. Luckily, I know I'm a lightweight and took it easy.

I yawn and stretch my muscles, shifting against some impressively large morning wood in the process.

"Need help with that?" I flash Armie a saucy wink when the friction makes him hiss.

"It's fine, I need a shower anyway," he sighs, then chuckles as an afterthought.

"What is it?"

"I just realized...Luca probably thinks we've been jacking each other off all this time."

"Oh, fuck," I laugh.

"Yeah."

We stay in bed for a while just laughing and joking, arguing about what I should make for breakfast. I end up just scouring the fridge and preparing a hearty assortment of everything we both like: quick-bake kale and quinoa bites, salami, Asiago cheese and focaccia that I heat up in the oven. It's nothing special, but Armie, big guy that he is, always devours his plate with a gusto and makes me promise to be his kitchen slave eternally.

Armie isn't needed for shooting today, so after my lessons I go to set alone and work more directly with Luca. It's all about developing Elio's character in this scene. Luca directs me to run my hand across the structures around me as I pass them - a wall or a fountain or whatever - to convey the visceral feel of my character experiencing life via the senses. Occasionally he'll use props as metaphors, requesting a close-up shot of a trickling fountain or something to symbolize fluidity and tranquility.