Chapter Text
You look towards the limp body adorning the bed. Posed just like a throw pillow, added for decoration. His body contorted against a landscape of messed up sheets and scrunched up pillows. It looks like a nest of limbs you’d like to come home to.
You hover over the bed and resist the urge to burrow your face in the confines of his neck, sure that if you’d wake him you’d be enraptured and held captive for the rest of the day. But time is never on your side and you’re positive time speeds up when you’re in the same time zone. A day gone in minutes. Night time is even worse. Time dilutes to a blink of an eye. A kiss. A long hard stroke.
Its become tradition not to bid your goodbyes.
But your sharp intake of breath is an alarm bell to his ears and you watch him stir as one, two of his arms reach up in the darkness and you make your way to turn your back to him but he’s already encircling you at the hips. His nimble fingers travel down the front of your crotch.
“I hate this- you know that right? I hate you.” His voice still muddled from the drunkness of sleep.
“I know.”
You close your eyes and unravel his hold and bring his fingers to your lips. You kiss all the digits and you wish you could take even just a piece of him with you-it would be this. Your hand cradling his, right above your heart and he seems to pick up on this- the tension of you leaving so he tears his hands away and you hear the sound of him throwing himself back on the bed. He curses. Then curses at you.
“You can’t just fuck and leave.” His voice reaching a higher pitch and you don’t even need to see it-you hear it- the quiver of his lips.
“Im not- you can’t do this. Armie...please, you’re killing me. Who the fuck do you think you are?” Anger in his voice.
Then, “Please...please just come back to bed.”
You reprimand yourself then for not having fucked him hard enough to have successfully knocked him out. Maybe he’ll think this as a dream sequence. Would it? A dream? Or a nightmare? You don’t know anymore, yourself.
The aftermath that comes after this type of indulgence doesn’t seem to balance itself out anymore. Everything always a little more sour, wounds become a little more deeper, resentment sits a little more readily on his tongue.
You should have left sooner. Left when he gave in to slumber. Should have never came here at all.
You thought you could do this. You could end it like an addiction. Cold turkey- like cigarettes, drugs or alcohol. You’ve done this with all your vices even, before. Of course, it never lasts-you could go days and weeks and sometimes even months before you find yourself knee deep in all of the sins you’ve starved from yourself. So much whiskey, so much smoke. So much him .
You’ve weaned off contact this prior year. Missed calls and unanswered texts.
Missed calls. Texts. Interspersed slurred words left on voicemail. (You would play these over and over-in your own drunken stupor late night in bed) Threats between ultimatums. Tim through sobbed filled hiccups desperate “ Armie- I swear to god if you don’t pick up-“
So he swore to god and when he stopped reaching out you realized your strength in all of this was false. A facade. This resolution only worked if Tim was still a participant and when he disappeared on you completely, so did your resolve.
He returned to you a taste of your own medicine and when the first drop hit your tongue it paralyzed you like it was poison.
You let the phone ring off the hook. The dial tone lulled you to sleep-an alternative to counting sheep. You don’t know how many voicemails you’ve left or what you’d even said (sometimes you talk in your sleep)
But this has pacified you for a while knowing that Tim was still there-on the receiving end. That he had to read your words, hear your voice. You let your thoughts run wild and you imagined him reacting to you. His contorted facial expressions, maybe made him swallow- a gulp. The bobbing of his throat. That you still held power over something as little as a furrow to his brow- a wetness to his eyes. His blood rushing down south. A twitch to his groin. Anything, really. Even knowing that he had to use his fingers to decline your calls. To delete your texts.
You did this, until you couldn’t.
“We’re sorry, you have reached a number that has been disconnected or no longer in service.”
The next second you were confirming your flight. Since you had no means to know where he was or where he was staying you figured you would just show up at this next screening, throw caution to the wind.
You arrive in the middle of flashing lights and a hum of disbelief.
-Ohhh my god
-Is that?
-Holy shit! Is that Armie Hammer!!!!!?
The murmurs heighten to a deafening sound. The flash of lights become blinding and the cameras click so fast that a steady white blankets the surrounding area.
And then you see it-the greens of his eyes...