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

11 | Armie

I dream about a young boy with dark hair and pale skin now. Even in sleep, I know it's Timmy beckoning to me with those expressive lips and huge doll eyes. In the mornings when I wake up, I lie next to my wife and ask myself what's wrong with me until she stirs and asks me the same question.

"Are you okay?" Elizabeth smiles sleepily at me from under her lashes, the covers pulled up to her collarbone.

I start, shifting to face her.

"Yeah, sweetheart, just thinking."

"About what?"

The whooshing sound of passing cars and general hubbub of early morning traffic waft through the open window, pale beams of lemon yellow falling across the bedspread in stripes. The sheets stir as Elizabeth reaches for my hand.

"You know me," I chuckle groggily.

Elizabeth hazards a guess.

"More Edward Dickens?"

"Charles Dickens," I amend with a wry smile. "No, not him this morning."

"Good," Elizabeth laughs softly. "You know I can't keep up with my brilliant husband's intellectual ramblings at a decent hour of the day."

"You try, and that's what matters." I press a chaste kiss to her forehead and sweep her golden bangs off her forehead. She's so beautiful.

"So what is it, then?" It's sweet how much she cares.

"It just... It all feels surreal, still. After Italy."

"Ah. You're missing hot sex with Timothée?" A wide grin splits Elizabeth's face. I roll my eyes. She knows Timmy and I never did that.

Liz rolls on top of me, clearly eager for some morning loving.

"Take it easy, sweetheart, you're pregnant," I chuckle.

"Yeah, but I just remembered those short shorts you put on for my birthday and now I'm horny and it's your fault, so..."

"It was my birthday - and that was months ago!"

Technically, her birthday was on August eighteenth, but we celebrated it together with mine because it's only ten days after hers. And, yes, I agreed to model the short shorts for her because she has a thing for them in a major way and I'd do anything for her. I even let her call me Armand in bed, despite hating that name, because she finds it sexy. I'm a serious pushover.

Today's the day I go pick up Timmy from the airport, and it's a longish drive, so I take care of business in bed and make sure to give Elizabeth something to think about while I'm gone. I always feel guilty leaving her for more than an hour because looking after the house and our daughter is hard with her pregnancy. She's been talking about hiring a nanny or live-in maid.

The October breeze is cool and crisp, and I roll down the windows to let it in as I drive. Timmy's flying JetBlue, a five hour flight from the JFK airport in New York. At LAX, I wait for him to claim his luggage in Terminal 2.

"Timmy T!" My eyes brim over with adoration at the sight of the young boy coming through the gate. He's grown his curls out almost to his shoulders, looking overly warm in a black sweater and washed-out jeans.