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

26 | Timothée

I should burrow my nose into my scarf, push my bare hands deeper into my coat pockets. The thin coat I'm wearing loose around my shoulders does little to buffer the chilly onslaught assailing me, but I don't feel the cold. Snowflakes flutter and drift from the heavens en masse, arraying everything in white, landing on my face and hair like bridal beads. The New York traffic is as boisterous as I remember it - honking and beeping, car engines humming, the scent of exhaust cloying the air - though offset somewhat by the postcard-like beauty of the December snowfall.

My shoes are too thin. The cold seeps through and freezes my toes as I trudge home. Step by step, one foot after the other, I thread through the crowds of milling pedestrians, the sights and sounds blending into the background in my mind.

I barely sense any of it, just walk.

Arriving at my apartment, I find refuge in the heated foyer, ride the elevator to my floor on autopilot. I fish my keys out of my pocket at the door, fumbling a little due to how cold my hands are. They're numb like blocks of ice, fingers grappling uselessly before I finally succeed in twisting the key in the lock. Pushing the door, I step inside and kick off my shoes.

Ansel is already reclined on the couch with his arms folded behind his head, smoking a cigarette by the open window. It's not much warmer in here than it is outside, thanks to the draft.

I set the grocery bags down on the kitchen table, not bothering to shrug out of my coat. For a few minutes, I keep my hands under a stream of hot water just to restore circulation. Then I begin to unpack the food.

Moments later, Ansel stands up and tosses the cigarette butt out the window before sliding it closed. He turns the heating on and pads across to the fridge to help me unpack.

"Hey," he says.

"Hey."

I close the fridge and toss the empty shopping bags in the cabinet under the kitchen sink. Glancing across the tiny kitchen and through the sliding balcony doors, I note that it's still snowing heavily. It would be picturesque, if not for the concrete jungle clotting the view. Sirens blare in the distance. I shiver, the space not yet fully warmed up.

Ansel rubs my shoulders, wincing at the cold.

"You sure you don't wanna smoke? It'll warm you up."

I shake my head and start rummaging through the freezer, looking for some frozen pizza.

"You know I'm trying to quit."

Ansel shrugs, leans back against the counter.

"So...how're you feeling?"

I fish out the last two packets of frozen pizza from the back of the freezer and immediately feel my stomach rumble.

"I'm okay." It was my first love. Of course it had to end in heartbreak. "Could you start the oven, please?" I cut the pizzas out of their wrappers and place them on a baking tray.

"Are...are you sure she was telling the truth? Maybe-"

"Shut up," I snap without conviction. Ansel bites his lip and helps me slide the tray into the oven.

"Sorry, dude. I won't talk about it."

I draw my hands over my face, a wave of exhaustion washing over me.