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

17 | Armie

As soon as Elizabeth retires to our room, I rush over to my trembling boy. Timmy gives a long, heartbreaking whine that lasts for too many seconds and drops his head to my shoulder, which is quickly dampened by his crying anew.

Ow. I'm going to be digging splinters out of my heart for eons after this. There's no pain in the world quite like watching this boy cry.

I slide my hands under his arms and lift him up; he wraps skinny legs around my waist instinctively. One hand cradles his head while the other reaches under his bony ass to hold him tight against me, rocking him gently. He's trying so hard to keep quiet, burying his face against my skin to muffle his sobs. My poor boy. I've had my heart broken a couple times back in high school, but I never cried like this.

"Please don't cry," I beg him, squishing him tighter into my chest. "Please don't cry." He's like putty in my arms; I can shape him however I want. Still squeezing him fiercely, I carry him into the kitchen and set him down on the counter. "Hey. Please don't cry." He sits with his scrawny arms wrapped tight around his crossed legs, head ducked down so I can't see the tears fall. He looks like a tightly-wound human ball, pale, skinny limbs trembling with the aftershocks of his sobbing.

I make quick work of warming up some milk and pour him a tall glass. Though I wish I could take away his hurt more than anything right now, I can't. But I'll be damned if I don't do everything in my power to take care of him. I'll make him milk and give him hugs and we can play on the PS4 and eat pistachios on the couch until he feels better about this shitty situation.

I set the glass down beside him but he ignores it. He won't budge; despite my efforts to pry his limbs apart, they remain tightly clenched around his body. He's holding himself so tight his knuckles are whitened, thin frame practically vibrating.

"Timmy..." I struggle to find the right words, afraid of shattering this fragile boy. I've already done enough damage - I did this to him. "C'mon, I made you something warm. Drink up, baby; you'll feel better."

It turns into a bit of a fight, me trying to unwrap the human tangle of limbs and Timmy remaining persistently unresponsive. I finally manage to grab his shaking wrist and pull the quivering appendage until he unfolds into a heartbreaking picture of sulking boy, all big doe eyes and violently batting eyelashes, glistening with tears. There's so much mess on his face, dried tears and snot that he can't be bothered to wipe away. Between that and the birds' nest of dark curls piled several inches high on his head, he's the ultimate hot mess.

"Go away," he says before promptly lifting the glass to his lips and chugging the whole thing in one go. He slumps down in defeat once it's drained, his upper lip framed by a thin, white milk moustache. I lean over to kiss it away, holding his face while I clean his upper lip. My beloved tries to slap me but I capture his bony wrist and lift it to my mouth, kissing his fingers too.

Ignoring his feeble protests, I pick him up off the counter and carry him up the stairs to his room. I set Timmy gently down on the bed and kneel by his side, smoothing my hand through the untameable mop of curls sticking to his forehead with tears.

He's out within minutes.

With his cheek smushed against the pillow and his pouty lips gaping in his sleep, he looks even younger than he is. He's a boy. Yes, just a boy. He's got the pheromones and youthful flush and vitality of one, even if his eyes fool me into thinking he's a hundred years old. I know now that he's more vulnerable than he lets on, and I'll do anything to protect him. I only wish I'd known sooner that I was the one he needed the most protecting from.