ALPHA || TIMOTHÉE CHALAMET

020

(tw: mentions of domestic abuse)

Timothée found some chamomile tea bags in the back of his kitchen cabinet and put a kettle over the stove. Caffiene would have been more ideal, given our tipsy state, but it was nearing four in the morning, and we didn't want any more damage for our sleep cycles.

Earlier, as he told me about his anxieties surrounding his career, I'd seen a new version of him, where you strip all the layers away. The boy on the cusp of a long and full career was scared. Scared of having his private life taken away, not knowing what qualified as his personal life anymore, the uneasiness at seeing a new TMZ article whenever he simply stepped onto the street. How it's difficult to keep your head above water these days as a young actor.

I see nothing but brightness in him, intelligence in each small conversation, self-awareness and maturity, the abilities both to speak with eloquence and to listen.

I held him there for a while, on the window seat, head on his shoulder and stroking his hair. Because I know that fear, that anxiety. I knew there was not much I could do, being just as broken of a human being myself. But tonight I could lie with him, surrounded by silence, curled up and stroking his hair. Simply letting him know that tonight, I'm here.

"What about you? I want to know about you," he says, sitting across from me on the window seat. We both sip from our mugs, and I rest mine in my lap, playing with the tea bag.

"What's there to know?"

"So I know — let me think. You went to college here, yes? Journalism. You grew up in San Francisco and went to an arts school."

"Good memory." My legs are tangled with his, and his hand rests on my ankle, fingers grazing my calf. I tell him about NYU, about writing and journalism. He asks when I started working at Robbers.

"Around two and a half years ago now, I think? I was really lucky to get hired there. I would go there to do homework, and Rosie — my manager — she and I hit it off real well, my being a regular and all. Then one day when I told her I'd been needing a new job, she offered me the position on the spot."

I'm telling him about the four and a half years I've been in the city. He's asking me about the places I've gone, telling me to go to the ones where I haven't. I'm rambling about college, about comparing San Fran to New York, and almost feel bad for how much I'm talking.

"How long have you lived in this area?" he asks.

"Um...almost six months now, I believe. It's really nice."

"Really? Can I come to your place sometime? We always do mine."

I kick him playfully, his hand still on my ankle, and his hand wraps around my foot. We place our empty tea mugs on the ground.

"So did you live on campus?"

"For the first two years, yeah." I'm staring out the window at the skyline again. "I lived in a place on the same street for the last two years. With my boyfriend." I feel like I spat that out. My stomach curls.

His grip on my foot loosens suddenly. "Your..."

"Oh, we're not together anymore."

I could feel his sudden relief in the air. "Oh, I — okay." He thinks for a moment. "It was serious?"

"Yeah," I reply, feeling the spell of nighttime vulnerability to its full effect. "We dated for three years. Lived together for two."