ALPHA || TIMOTHÉE CHALAMET

016

tw: mention of vomit

The night is filled with insouciant liquor shots and causal conversation. Old vinyls spin on the record player; "I got this one in France," Timothée mentions of an old hip hop record, noting that he spent most of his summers in France while growing up. [REDACTED] gets up to dance, taking Violetta by the arm - "you're a dancer, you should be better than me!" - and they move to the French hip hop around the coffee table. Lucas holds another liquor bottle in the air as he joins them. I giggle from the couch.

Timothee's been sitting next to me for a while, my shoulder against his. My legs pulled up to criss-cross position, resting them partially against his lap. His arm rests around my knee.

The vibe tonight is reminiscent of high school; getting drunk off your parents' liquor with your best friends late at night on your back porch. The city is big, inviting, busy, always happening. But simply being in a living room with a group of friends was something I hadn't had since college. It made me miss my college friends; it made me all the more thankful I'd come.

Timothée would crack a stupid joke, and I'd giggle, resting my forehead on his shoulder. Though a fit of laughter, I swore I felt his lips planted on my head for a split second. Timothée tells me to pick out a record, and I pull out Frank Ocean's Blonde.

The night's casual, carefree atmosphere comes to a halt when we hear Lucas burst into tears.

"Hey." Timothée gets up immediately, walking to where Lucas sits on the floor, taking the cup from his hand and resting it on the table. "Okay, you've had enough to. Hey." He crouches in front of Lucas. "Hey."

I look to [REDACTED] and Violetta, my face asking a question. Violetta walks closer to me. "Got dumped last week," she whispers.

"Oh no," I respond.

Timothée continues his attempt to coax Lucas, when his hand goes to his mouth and he gets up, running for the bathroom. Timothée follows. Lucas misses.

"Lucas? Hey." [REDACTED] follows into the hallway. "Hey. Let's get you home, alright?" I hear him say to Timothée, "Dude, I'm sorry."

"It's okay, don't worry about it," I hear Timothée respond. Someone just puked on his floor, and he's being more polite than most people would be.

I grab a roll of paper towels in the kitchen and locate the disinfectant spray. [REDACTED] suggests we call it a night, and he and Violetta leave to take Lucas home. I stay to help clean the mess, all the while laughing and cracking jokes to keep the mood lively until the floor's cleaned.

As I help to gather the cups, cans, and bottles, I become a little more aware of my tipsiness, though I didn't have as much as I usually do. I also become aware that I'm alone with Timothée.

"Thanks for helping. You didn't have to stay," Timothée says as he places bottles in a kitchen cabinet, awkwardness on his voice.

I lean against the kitchen counter. "It's fine. It was actually a really nice time. Thanks for having me."

"Yeah, sure thing. I'm really glad you made it." He grins at the floor, leaning on the opposite side of the kitchen.

I reach past his shoulder, into the liquor cabinet, for whatever bottle I grab first. Some rum. I take two red cups and pour enough for a shot in each, handing one to him. "One more," I tell him with a grin. "Godspeed" by Frank Ocean plays faintly from the living room.

He has that adorable smile when he takes the cup. "What are we toasting to?" he asks in a flirtatious tone.

"To a really, really wonderful night." I say. "Or, how about, to every little disaster that seems to occur whenever we see each other."

He ponders. "Maybe they're not so much disasters if it means I get to see you again."

I stare long and hard at him, feeling my little heart begin to thump. I curl the corner of my mouth into a smirk, reaching and tapping his cup with mine, both of us downing the shot.

He places the cup on the counter and walks into the living room, taking a seat on the couch, and I follow suit, sitting next to him. He moves closer and lays across my lap, arms behind his head, eyes closed. Goddamn. I toy with one of his curls between my fingers.

"It's late," I bring up, after a moment of silence and his body heat. Or maybe not so silent, as my heart is about to thump out of my chest.

"You're right." His eyes open, and our eyes are locked. His hand reaches up and gently grazes a piece of my hair, making me break out in goosebumps. After another moment, he asks, "you need to leave soon?" like he didn't want to ask it.

My fingers gently graze his curls, pushing them from his face. Outside, you can hear city noises. Car horns, people shouting, music playing. It's a different world than the one I'm in here, right now, tonight.

"What do you think I should do?"

His hand moves from my hair to my face, tracing my jaw with his fingers, his thumb brushing over my bottom lip. His mouth hangs partially open. My heart thumps wildly.

"I think you should stay."