When In Rome ► Timothée Chalamet

14 | Late Night Conversations

Y/N

_

"Would you like to come in?"

The soft chatter on the sidewalk floated through the air, the rosy glow of the setting sun sweeping over the dormitories. Timothee had walked me back to the school's campus, and in his words, it was because I would get lost. I clutched the straps of my backpack nervously, awaiting the boy's response.

All of my previous offers he had shut down, but after today's events, I was hoping that would change.

"I'd rather not bother," the boy said, shaking his head, "it's getting late."

He glanced at the ground, but I could tell the words he said weren't the words he wanted to say. Our back-and-forth banter had gone on long enough, and at one point it would have to stop. So why not now?

"You wouldn't bother," I nodded, turning to head inside the building, "let's go."

I didn't look back, but purposefully strode towards the elevator. I could hear the boy follow after me, and I exhaled in relief. There was always the chance that he wouldn't accept my invitation, but considering the fact that he did the same thing to me, I knew he would. I always followed after him, after all, so it was time for him to return the favor.

The elevator ride was silent, but the quickened beating of my heart echoed into my ears. It was all I could hear as I walked down the hallway, pulled my keys out of my pocket, and swung open the door.

"Elliot?" I called out, switching on the lights.

Timothee lingered by the doorway, hesitant to go in. I wasn't sure what it was with him, never daring to enter the room, but I was hoping it would change. There was nothing to be scared of, was there?

I set my things down on the table, before walking towards the kitchen.

"You can make yourself comfortable," I said, "do you want something to drink?"

He shook his head, still silent. I popped open the refrigerator door, and grabbed an Orangina from the far back, wandering back into the other room. Timothee had moved from his original spot, and was now hovering beside my bed.

His eyes were glued to the picture frame, looking back at his own lead incarnation. I had forgotten about the frame... and here he was, staring at it. An embarrassing knot in my stomach began to twist around, and I struggled to open my mouth for an explanation.

"You really liked the picture, didn't you?" he said under his breath, a soft smile creased on his lips.

"Elliot bought the frame," I fumbled, "And made me hang it up there-"

"That didn't answer my question."

He turned to face me, his satchel swinging beside him, and he batted his eyelashes in curiosity. It put me on edge how unpredictable he was; one moment he's reserved, and the other he's confident and assertive.

"Would it be bad if I did?" I asked quietly, "why do you want to know?"

He took a slow step towards me, the curls of his dark-brown hair falling over his eyes. Suddenly the knot in my stomach dissipated into a flurry of butterflies, but I couldn't tell what kind they were. Affection and apprehensive were two completely different things, yet so similar in feeling.

"The artist and the watcher," he began, "view art in different eyes."

The floorboards creaked under his steps, but the only thing I could focus on was the glint in his olive-eyes. I felt hypnotized underneath his serpent-like gaze.

"And to know what the watcher sees," he said breathily, stopping inches away from my, "would let them see it as one."

I could feel his breath touch the tip of my nose, as he leaned over me. The room slowly started to fade away, faster and faster into a void of darkness, the only thing visible being the boy in front of me.

It was too overwhelming for me to feel, the cold drink still clutched in my hands. The drink in my hands. I snapped back to reality, ducking under the boy's arm and retreating to the couch.

The tension in the room was unbearable, a static of unsaid words and actions. I clutched the remote from the coffee table, and pointed towards the television in front of me.

"E-Elliot and I bought Netflix last night," I stuttered, "if you're interested."

I saw him glance towards the doorway, before walking over and sitting on the other side of the couch. Desperate to distract myself, I started to scroll through the movies, hoping to find something we could watch.

"Stop," the boy said suddenly, pointing at the screen, "that one."

I had stopped on The Theory of Everything, a movie I had never seen. Timothee took the satchel off of his shoulders, and delicately pulled out the sketchbook I had seen him with at the store.

"I draw most of my inspiration from watching films," he noted, "if they could come to life on screen, why not on paper?"

I didn't know what to say to that, so I started the movie with the click of a button. About half an hour in, I began to see what Timothee meant. The characters were so vibrant, full of life and meaning, which I had never noticed in cinematography.

It was beautiful.

We didn't speak a word after that, too entranced by the moving pictures to break away for a conversation. Scene after scene it seemed to play, stimulating my senses and making me feel calm.

And tired.

I didn't realize my eyes fluttering closed, and fell back onto the couch in exhaustion. Sleep seemed to consume me to the point where I didn't realize I had fallen onto the boy's shoulder, who chuckled at the banality of it all.

And so I slept.

_

I woke up to the calm serenity of the room, the sunlight streaming in through the cracks of the curtains. Rubbing my eyes, I looked around the room to take in my surroundings.

Elliot was passed out on his bed, the blankets wrapped tightly around him. I was still laying on the couch, but a blanket from the cupboard had been removed and given to me.

Yawning, I let my feet fall to the ground, and stretched my arms out above me. As I stood up, something floated towards the ground, the air tossing it back and forth as it fell.

I picked the paper off of the ground, flipping it over to see what it was.

It was another sketch, presumably the one Timothee had drawn while watching the movie last night. But it wasn't of the characters, or the film, or anything to do with it.

It was of me.