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

15 | Armie

Call Me By Your Name is introduced in the Best Movie category, but ends up losing to The Shape of Water. James Ivory wins the award for Best Adapted Screenplay as the movie screenwriter, though. It's huge because he's the oldest Oscar winner ever, at a grand whopping total of eighty-nine years old. He's wearing an Elio-themed shirt and classic tux, so that was an honour for T. Even though my boy didn't actually win an Oscar, I know it's still an incredible evening for him. He's told me that ever since he started working on Call Me By Your Name, he's just had a series of successive evenings, like tonight, that have all vied with each other for best night of his life.

And yet, I know something's wrong when Timmy doesn't barge into my hotel room after the Oscars party. Throughout the last year, Timmy would make a habit of coming over to the hotel room I share with Elizabeth and jumping into bed with a joyous aww, let me in with you guys, ever aware of the standing invite he has to do so now that I'm officially wrapped around his little finger. Especially now that he's staying at our house for the foreseeable future, he knows he's part of the family.

He doesn't join us tonight, though.

I let a few minutes pass, awaiting the knock on the door or maybe just the sound of the spare keycard we gave him sliding in the lock - but he doesn't show up.

"I'm gonna go check on Timmy," I tell Elizabeth, shrugging back into my shirt and pulling a pair of jeans over my boxers.

Elizabeth looks up from the bed where she's on her phone, concern etched in her features.

"Do you think...he's upset that he didn't win?"

"No. That's not like him at all." I slip my keycard and phone into my pocket. "I'll be right back, babe."

Timmy's just a few rooms down the corridor, which is what makes it even weirder that he didn't show up tonight. No matter how tired he may be after the day's events, I'm literally just five doors away on the same floor. Something's definitely wrong. The concern is amplified tenfold when he doesn't answer the door, and I have to let myself in with the keycard he gave me.

The room is completely dark, save for the multicoloured pinpricks of city lights twinkling through the large windows. There's a Timmy-sized lump on the bed, and it's not moving.

"Baby?" I approach the bed carefully, dropping to my knees at his side. My sweetheart's lying on his stomach, face down in his pillow. "Are you okay? Do you feel sick?" I reach out to stroke a few curls off his temple, but he promptly turns away from me. When I try to run my fingers through his hair again, he worms his way under the pillow and pulls it firmly over his head. At least he's alive.

"Armie," I murmur hesitantly, rubbing his smooth shoulder in an effort to coax him out from under the pillow. His back stiffens almost imperceptibly, so I try again. "Armie?"

Timmy starts muttering incoherently, which transforms into tearful muttering, which eventually gives way to loud sobs that have me gaping, stricken, feeling like my heart has been cauterized.

"I just..." Timmy's bony chest heaves violently, and I can barely make out the words. "Just wanted to win for you..."

"Baby," I gasp, knowing I could kick myself around this entire hotel and it wouldn't be enough to slake my self-loathing right now. "I'm so proud of you, sweetheart, you have no idea. You're an icon now. Everyone loves you; you've made such an incredible name for yourself at such a young age and so quickly-"