Chapter Text
Timothée woke from his slumber to the sound of his phone vibrating on the nightstand. Buried under the covers, with only his curls peeking out the top of the comforter, splayed messily on the pillow, he reached his arm out, seizing the phone. He groaned, unwilling to rise, having fallen asleep only four hours earlier. He’d had a fitful night’s sleep, stressed over the upcoming Oscar nominee announcements that were scheduled for later that day. He tried to pretend that they didn’t matter, that awards were subjective, and his career was only just beginning and shouldn’t be defined by a small, potentially fleeting moment. But he couldn’t deny that the chatter in the media and praise from critics and fans, along with his own love of the film and the role Luca had graciously bestowed upon him, had made him anxious to hear his name called from the podium.
But right now, all he heard was his phone vibrating incessantly and so he pushed the covers back as he rose on his elbow, his body turned towards the floor, and answered the phone.
“Hello?” he said groggily.
“It’s here Timmy, your big day!” Armie greeted excitedly.
Timothée smiled, holding the phone away from his ear as Armie’s deep voice boomed through the speaker. If waking up early meant waking up to Armie’s voice then he’d gladly wake up early every day.
“Hey man” he said, his voice still thick with sleep.
“Today’s the day you become an Oscar nominee!”
Timothée laughed, “Oh I don’t know about that.”
“Don’t do that. You’re going to get nominated Tim, I know it” Armie said.
Armie’s enthusiasm, on level with an over-eager pageant mom, embarrassed Timothée in a way that only those closest had the ability to do. Armie loved to make him feel uncomfortable by over-praising him just so he could see Timothée squirm in humility.
“Ah man,” Timothée exhaled, pulling the covers back over his face, trying to hide his giddiness from the world. Armie had that effect on him, even through the phone. His ability to make Timothée giddy like a teenager in love would be embarrassing if it weren’t true.
He’d had girlfriends in high school, but they weren’t anything like what he had with Armie. With Armie it felt more immediate and comfortable, the intense casualness of a summer fling that had miraculously survived through the winter. Initially he suspected their relationship had only persisted this long because they were not ready to let go of the intimacy they’d carefully cultivated in Crema, hoping to trick their evolving lives into staying put in the past like nostalgia was something that could be gripped and didn’t defiantly drip through your fingers to slink back where it belonged. But when spring came, and they found themselves still tumbling into each other’s arms, it was clear that whatever they’d started was blooming into something serious.
Now it’d been almost a year since filming had wrapped on Call Me By Your Name and the press tour that followed was coming to a close. Each moment he’d spent with Armie behind closed doors on the tour, traveling from airport to airport, staying in adjoining rooms, sneaking midnight kisses in darkened restaurants, renewed his wonder for Armie. It was these small moments that Timothée reminded himself not to take for granted. Like when their hands grazed softly next to each other while posing for photos, careful to look like an unintentional result of their bodies shifting towards the wall of cameras flashing from all angles, or when Armie gripped his leg reassuringly underneath the table because Timothée had to carry an entire interview in French, Armie’s translation too delayed in his ear to offer any sort of relief. It was these moments that kindled the warmth inside Timothée, like a fire being stoked, not for fear of burning out but because it was natural, what had always been done.
Armie’s voice broke through his wandering thoughts, pulling him out of the fog, “let’s grab lunch after the announcement to celebrate.”
Timothée, tired and knowing it was useless to remind Armie that he hadn’t been officially nominated yet, agreed and hung up before rolling on his stomach and drifting back to sleep.
His name had been called, had he heard that correctly? Yes, while watching the livestream on his laptop, he heard the familiar notes of his name, deliberately announced with its French accent, being called alongside Gary Oldman. There were others too but he was in such disbelief that he’d all but drowned out the rest of the nominees. Sure, they were great. Sure, they had a better chance to win than him. But still…his name, his name was among the ranks, forever etched in Oscar history. Timothée couldn’t help but smile from ear to ear, too proud to care if he looked like an overexcited kid. Hell, he was as a kid as everyone kept reminding him amidst their congratulations that he was now the youngest best actor nominee in decades.
“Wow” Timothée said to himself quietly, still unable to fully grasp what had happened an hour later as he sat next to Armie on the large sofa, blankly staring at the tacos and discarded foil that covered the coffee table. Lunch plans had changed after Armie insisted they order in because “you’re an Oscar nominee now, you’re gonna be mobbed!”
Timothée shook his head as he ran his hands through the front of his hair, as if moving the loose strands away would allow him to think more clearly. The whole thing felt surreal, like a dream he’d surely wake up from if he just pinched himself and for a split second he almost did. “Wow, wow, wow” he repeated, the words falling out quicker like he was practicing a new mantra. What a great story this will be, Timothée thought sarcastically, when reporters asked how he felt after being nominated and all he could do was say wow over and over again like a bad Owen Wilson movie.
As Timothée muttered to himself, lost in thought, Armie stared at him, his eyes shining brightly. A lesser poet would say Armie was starry eyed and in a way, he was star-struck by Timothée. The Oscar nominee, the golden boy, he’d done it. Not that Armie ever doubted he could, he’d known within a week on set that he was something special, something that demanded to not just be recognized, but adored and yet that was not Timothée at all. Shy Timmy who laughed the loudest in the room while concealing his face behind Armie’s shoulders, the same person who declined a stylist, favoring to dress himself, yet carried himself awkwardly like he’d not fully grown into his skin. It didn’t matter if he lost or that he’d see less of him now that he would be swept into Oscar coverage, Armie was proud of Timothée for making it this far, knowing that this was the only beginning.
He pulled Timothée’s hand from his hair, shaking him out of his concentration, and leaned him into his chest, his body warm against his shirt. He kissed the top of his head, the soft waves bending against his lips, and rested his head against Timothée’s.
“I couldn’t have done this without you, you know” Timothée said. The sun shone through the windows, casting a hazy glow on his face, his green eyes sparkling and shifting to shades of hazel. It looked like the rays were radiating from deep inside his bones and in moments like this, Armie could swear they did.
Sometimes he thought he didn’t deserve Timothée, all his earnest words, the way he so openly accepted his flaws and patiently stuck by his side during moments of weakness. Like the cloudy day in Crema when Armie couldn’t get a scene right, instead twisting and turning it, chewing it so ferociously that Luca threw his arms up, calling it a day, telling him to not bother coming over for movie night since he clearly wasn’t taking any notes. “Mio dio, una muvi star” he’d said, my god, some movie star…
Armie returned home frustrated, his anger simmering too close to the surface as he resisted the urge to let it pour out and tear the whole room apart. It was only when Timothée appeared at his door, knocking sheepishly, that he started to calm down. “You’ll get it tomorrow” he’d said as he laid on Armie’s chest, his fingers running under his shirt, stroking his chest hair, repeating it until it broke down to “tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.” Everything wrapped up in one word, confident that the answer to all life’s problems could be tied in a neat little bow called tomorrow. Timothée kissed his cheek as if to seal his promise of tomorrow, his hand slowly stroking up and down Armie’s stomach hypnotically. He’d admired Timothée’s unwavering optimism against the dark night closing in around them, his body draped across his like a shield.
When he’d woken up the next morning, drowsily reaching his hand out to find a cool, wrinkled sheet beside him, Armie wondered if it’d all been a fever dream. Then, he appeared in the doorway, freshly showered, holding two Styrofoam cups of coffee and sympathetic look on his face. It was at that moment that Armie felt the rumblings of a quiet epiphany, not one he needed to shout to the world but would hold close, tucked away safely, he could spend the rest of his tomorrows with Timothée.
The morning after the Oscars announcement, Timothée arrived at the airport. His schedule was going to be booked solid for the next month with awards press, but for now it was business as usual and the small little town of Crema, a place that held more memories than people he thought, was throwing a celebration in honor of the film’s Italian release. The cast and crew were returning to their old stomping grounds, appropriately ending where they’d started. For some, it felt like the closing of a book, but for Timothée it was the beginning of their chapter, a blank page waiting to be filled with stories of him and Armie. And if they ran out of paper he’d write their stories on the cobblestones of Crema, underneath the shades of airplane windows, in the small of Armie’s back. There’d be no end, but a trail of love letters that expanded as far as the universe, kept just out of reach like the string of a balloon floating up into the sky.
After the screening there was going to be a large party in the piazza, an open invitation to anyone who cared to show up, but there was only one person Timothée wanted to see, and he was just as happy to see him slumped in the cold, metal airport chair as he would’ve been to see him in the middle of Crema, a beloved statue surrounded by historians who wanted to admire but only from afar for fear of disturbing the preservation. Only Timothée could rewrite the rules, don’t ever just look, always, always touch, and he did when he slapped Armie’s back as a greeting, jarring him from his sleep. “Just resting my eyes” he claimed but Timothée knew better, seeing the film collected in the inner corners of his eyes, his beard shaggy, breath smelling of stale cigarettes from the night before.
He usually made him wait until after they kissed to smoke but the nomination had left him feeling grateful, the way big moments can make everything and nothing seem important. And so he’d joined him on the balcony last night, allowed his hands to cup around his lips as Timothée sparked the tobacco, before passing it back and forth lazily between their fingers despite Armie having a full pack in his breast pocket. As Timothée blew out the smoke, watching his breath become air, Armie leaned over and kissed him. Their smoke-tinged breath mixed together and they kissed longingly, as if to separate was to die. Their kiss deepened as they pulled and tugged towards each other as if say no, it’s yours. My breath is your breath, I will give you my life in exchange for yours and in that way we’ll both survive, walking around in each other’s shoes.
When Armie pulled down on his collar, murmuring into his neck apologetically for leaving last night, Timothée let out a barely perceptible whine. Thank god the airport speakers rang loudly overhead, announcing their flight was boarding or he’d half a mind to jump him right then and there.
“It’s ok,” he assured him, “I knew you couldn’t leave without packing your 50 tracksuits first.”
“49,” Armie answered.
First class began boarding and Timothée grabbed his arm, dragging his large frame out of the chair until he meandered past the stewardesses, flashing a grin, and settled into the oversized recliner. Feet propped up, Armie ordered a whiskey, ready to settle into the long flight. He hadn’t wanted to leave Timothée’s last night. Removing him from his arms felt like dropping an anchor into the water, heavy and too far down to see clearly. But he knew if he didn’t go home to pack he might never leave, though at this moment that didn’t seem like such a bad idea. Instead he was on his way to Italy, Timothée settled next to him comfortably, headphones already over his ears to drown out the loud roars of the airplane taking off. Armied smiled at him serenly.
Timothée looked back skeptically, “What?”
“Nothing,” he said as he laced his fingers through his, nothing was wrong at all.