When In Rome ► Timothée Chalamet

2 | Language of Love

Y/N

_

"Boarding train 12," the conductor yelled out in his thick Italian accent, "Il treno dodieci."

I looked up from my book, and saw people already filing onto the train. I wasn't sure where all the people came from, but suddenly I was last in line to board. I sighed, tucking my book underneath my arm and grabbing my suitcase.

The train's hallway was narrow, my bags almost too big to fit through. It was a comfortable train, mahogany doors that slide open, green leather seats, and the smell of people drinking their morning espresso. Being the last person let on, all of the single seaters were already filled.

Biting my lip, I lugged my suitcase behind me as I made my way towards the compartments. The first two I passed were packed with women who seemed to be heading to a meeting, all of them wearing the same grey suit, and the following were taken by larger men laughing over stories from the previous week. I passed by a smaller compartment, my hopes fading, until I realized it was only filled by one man.

I slid open the door, and stumbled in, struggling to fit my suitcase through the opening.

"Hey- are you blind?" A voice erupted out from behind me, "this compartment is occupied."

I furrowed a brow at the passenger as I sat down on the opposite side of the booth. I couldn't see his face, it was covered by a red baseball cap pulled over his eyes, and he had papers strewn about messily on the desk in front of him.

"So are all the other ones, buddy," I stated, rolling my eyes, "sorry to intrude on your work."

He didn't say anything after that, but let out a disgruntled groan as he returned to the paper in front of him. I flipped open my book and began to read, both of us pretending the other didn't exist.

The train started moving five minutes after schedule. I had a strong liking for being on time to things, but I told myself nothing entirely bad could happen in that small moment.

_

"Business.." the man mumbled, tapping his pen against the desk, "atti-attivale commerca..."

I shut my book closed, narrowing my eyes at his incessant muttering. He had been trying to figure out the correct pronunciation of the word business, but has clearly been unsuccessful.

"attività commerciale," I said bluntly, "tone mark on the final a."

"I didn't ask you," he muttered, dropping his pen and letting it clatter against the wooden table.

"But you clearly needed help."

"I could have figured it out for myself."

I pursed my lips and shook my head, "asking for help doesn't make you stupid, you realize?"

"I never said I was stupid," he said, adjusting his cap to look at me.

This time I got a clear look at his face. He had bright green eyes, a narrow face, and pink lips. He seemed so delicate for a man, his features almost exact to a china doll.

"A thank you would still be nice," I said, glancing away from his persistent glare.

"Fine," he mumbled, picking up his pen, "thank you."

"You're welcome."

His pen started to scratch illegible letters into the page, but I could tell it was supposed to be in Italian. His dialect told me he was from New York as well, but not from Brooklyn. What was an American like him doing on the train to Rome?

He looked like he didn't want to be bothered, but a whole list of questions was starting to pile in the back of my head.

"What's a New Yorker like you doing in Europe?" I said abruptly.

"I'm a little busy right now," he said in his negative tone, before pausing to look back at me, "how'd you know I was from NY?"

"Brooklyn-born, baby," I smiled.

"Really? Hell's Kitchen," he said, setting down his pen again, "I'd ask the same of you."

See? He was already starting to warm up to me. I tucked my book into my bag, sure that the conversation would last a while.

"Study abroad," I explained, "I'm studying the Italian language."

"Explains a lot.  Study abroad too, I'm here for an art based course."

"You're an artist? Then what are you writing?"

"An Italian Language essay," he said, expressing his distaste for the work, "it's required for the academic curriculum at NYU."

"You go to NYU too? Funny, I haven't seen you around."

"Language and art are in two different buildings," he commented, flicking a stray piece of hair out of his face, "that explains it."

"Oh, well I'm pretty sure that's due today," I laughed, pointing at his paper, "it was assigned 3 months ago."

"I spent the majority of time sketching, so I didn't have time to get any of this done."

"Do you need help?"

"Yeah," he nodded, "maybe I could use some."

I moved my backpack off to the side, and sat down next to the man. Peering over his shoulder I read through the messy paragraph he had written. Most of the sentences were grammatically correct, but some of the words just weren't- words. It sounded like he just gave up and stuck an 'e' at the end of an english phrase and called it Italian.

"sona uno studenta d'arte," I read out, " that should actually be sono and studente."

"Google translate said otherwise."

"I'm a language student, you should probably listen to me."

"Fair point."

I read through a couple more of the sentences, told him how to fix it, and in no time he was already done with the assignment. I let out a satisfied sigh, and returned to my side of the train compartment.

"I could draw you something," he said, "in return for helping me."

"Draw me something?"

"Yeah, whatever you want."

"Can you draw yourself?" I asked.

"Why would you want a sketch of me?" he said, confused.

"It's like a memento," I explained, "of the artist I met on the train to Rome."

He picked up his pencil and smirked, "Timothée."

"Timothée?"

"The artist you met on the train to Rome," he laughed, "Timothée Chalamet."