ALPHA || TIMOTHÉE CHALAMET

018

Even afterwards, neither of us were tired, which was something we realized after lying in his bed for some time after it all happened. The nighttime sounds of the city were still vibrant outside, but here in his apartment, in his bed, we had our own private world. We had each other. Nothing else seemed to matter.

We were silent for a few minutes, our legs tangled, his head in the crook of my neck as I stroked his hair, which smelled of hair product and citrus shampoo. His arm was draped over my chest, keeping me pulled close to him, my fingers tracing circles on his arm. The silence had no awkwardness to go along with it. We laid there listening to the distant city noise outside the window, wrapped up in each other, the crooks and curves of each others' bodies, our soft and vibrating giggles.

"I like this," he'd finally said. "I like this a lot." His chin was propped up on my shoulder, his hand on my cheek again, pushing the hair from my face. He was analyzing me, tracing my jaw and nose with his fingers, and his gentle, tender grin overcoming his face as his eyes met mine again.

"Me too," I answered. It was all we needed. His lips met my neck, tickling, making me erupt in giggles once more.

We made out again, his breath warm and heavy, his body over mine, hands pulling my waist til we both sat up in the bed, my legs around his waist, our foreheads resting together.

My head went to the crook of his neck, arms around his shoulders, his arms cradling around my waist. My hand lay delicately on his jaw, tracing his cheeks and jaw, toying with the curls around his ear. A couple times, I'd felt his lips on my cheek, his fingers combing through my hair tenderly. Several moments felt like several years. I wanted it to be eternity.

**********

It's close to 2:30 in the morning. I'm sitting on his kitchen counter in nothing but my underwear and one of his shirts. It smells just like the one I still have at home. I wonder how easily I can steal this one, too.

Timothée rummages through the cupboard in front of me, pulling out an expensive looking bottle of champagne and two glasses. "Saved this one for a special occasion," he says, setting the glasses down next to me, pouring into each and handing one to me. He stands between my legs, faces close as he holds his glass to mine.

"To you. And to this night," he nearly whispers.

"To you," I respond, a warm blush in my cheeks, clinking our glasses together.

We each take long swigs, and right as I pull the glass away from my mouth, his lips collide into mine again, feeling the smile on his lips. He tugs at the front of my shirt, some of my champagne spilling to the floor as I let out a giggling shriek, my legs wrapping around his waist.

**********

He puts on Frank Ocean's Channel Orange vinyl, and we're in his living room, sitting on either ends of his couch. Our legs are tangled and draped over one another, and we hold our champagne glasses, a family-size bag of Doritos between us.

We're kissing between sips and putting Doritos in each others' mouths. I've been so good at putting away the lingering anxiety and just being completely present. I know the current quickening beat of my heart is at the fault of Timothée, but that doesn't make all of it good.

"Timothée."

"You know you can call me Timmy."

"Timothée. Timmy," I roll around on my tongue. "You know, Marley's what my friends and family call me."

"Oh? It's a nickname?"

"Short for Margaret. I hated that name when I was little."

"Margaret. Sounds like the name of a very successful writer," he responds, kissing me again.

I grimace in response.

"Well, I think it's pretty." His hand rests in the crook of my knee.

"You know, apparently the nickname for Margaret was Peggy. And that was even worse! My family tried that until one day, when I was seven or eight, I marched right up to them and announced that from then on, my name was going to be Marley, and nothing else."

"And they just went with it?"

"Yeah. Surprisingly, for an eight-year-old demanding of them what she be called, they were cool with it."

"Smart eight-year-old. My real name is actually supposed to be pronounced Timo-tey, like because of the accent on that first 'e', but it's just too demanding to ask of people."

"Too demanding of me, Timo-tey?" I placed my empty glass on the coffee table and scooted closer to him, pushing his hair behind his ears. Like a cue, he presses his lips to my cheek again, then my mouth.

I kiss him back for a moment, and then my hands rest on his chest. "Hmm?" he grunts. I'm looking down at his chest, at the couch, feeling the gears in my mind start to quicken in pace.

"Is something wrong?" he asks tenderly, his hands grasping mine which still lie on his chest, leaning forward.

"Is this something you do a lot?"

"Do what a lot?"

"I don't know, like, flings. Like, with all your...casual hookups."

"I don't know. Do you do that a lot?"

"I, um —" and I can't find any words.

"A friend dared me to download the app. I think maybe you were the first one I matched?"

"Oh. I —"

"But if you must know, I definitely do this a lot. I like to meet really beautiful girls who turn out to also be really smart—" he kisses up my arm, "and good to talk to, and then even post-hookup, can't really stop thinking about them. So I go visit them at work, and then I keep really creepy guys away from them at clubs, and even get a resplendent black eye out of it. Then, I re-download the said app because I'm that desperate to talk to her, because she's funny—" he kisses my jaw, "and smart —" then my cheek, "and nice, and kind of really pretty..." He lifts up my hand, kissing the back of it. "Happens all the time."

I give up on words, only leaning in to lay my forehead on his shoulder. He pulls my legs in, and my head lies in the crevice of his neck. Not worrying about how this came to be, or what happens next, or any sort of label there may be. Just knowing that right now, here, I'm with Timmy. Right now, it's everything.

**********

a/n: 12.7k reads... thank you. hope you guys like this one <3