Timothèe Chalamet Imagines

✿weeping✿

Your POV

I'm laying in the bed reading The Bell Jar for the thousandth time. It is so good. The windows are open next to me - the afternoon breeze fluttering the light curtains. Sunlight pours into the room. I don't remember the last time I felt this relaxed.

We are in Sweden of all places right now. Life got really crazy for a while. Tim was away filming and then gone for press, and my career was getting extremely fast-paced and stressful. We needed a month away from it all, where we could just be alone together. It has been lovely.

Timmy went out for a walk about an hour ago, and I hear the front door of our little cabin open and close quietly. He's back. The cabin is small - just a kitchen, a tiny living room, a bathroom, and this bedroom all on one level. I hear him walk the length of the living room, and he slowly pushes the already ajar door open all the way with his shoulder.

I look up at him with a smile, but it is instantly replaced with a concerned expression. He's looking down, his hands in the pocket of his hoodie, shoulders slightly hunched. He's weeping, slight sniffles coming from him.

"What's wrong?" I ask, setting my book aside and sitting up.

"I don't know. A lot of things just hit me all at once I guess," he says. He looks up slightly and walks over to the bed, curling up on it so that his knees are against his chest and his head of curls rests on my lap.

"What do you mean?" I ask. I run my fingers through his curls, petting them back.

"I just... I thought about how much I miss you when I'm gone and how I feel like I don't see you enough... and I don't see my mom enough either. I don't have a lot of time on this Earth with the people I love, and I spend so much of it away from them," he says. He's still crying softly, not sobbing or completely breaking, just letting tears flow from his eyes and down his cheeks. His tears leave little dark spots on my jeans. "And I'm so grateful for my career, and I just want to thank every single person who has supported me because I don't... I guess I just don't feel worthy of all the opportunities I get."

"That's way too much for one person to think about," I tell him.

I love this about him. He's not afraid to cry, or show his emotions. I love how sensitive and vulnerable he can be. It's one of his most admirable traits.

When he doesn't say anything, I continue.

"You know how good of a son you are. You are so good to your mom. You see her way more than most people care to see their moms - even though your job could completely prevent that. You care so much about her and she knows that," I tell him. "And of course I miss you when you're gone, but I understand that you have to be. You're with me more than you're away from me anyway. I love what you do so much, and I'm glad that you get to have all of these amazing experiences. And what are we doing now? Taking a month off in Sweden. We're just fine," I assure him, still running my fingers through his curls. "You are so grateful for everything you have, and you do an incredibly good job of showing everyone that you are. You are humble, and it's not just an act. You are genuinely good." He continues to cry softly for a moment.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you come up with a bunch of shit to say like that. It was just one of those walks that gets you thinking... it's been too long since I've cried I guess," he says. I smile at how sweet he is.

"I love you so much," I say. I scrunch my knees up so that his head is closer to me so that I can lean down and kiss his temple. Putting my knees back down, I gently take my finger and wipe the tears from his eyes and cheeks. He smiles at my touch.

"Can we make dinner?" he asks.

"Of course."

An hour later we are trying to cut homemade pasta dough into noodles.

"I don't know how well this is going to work," I say, trying to unstick the dough from my fingers.

"Well... neither of us really has a, um, knack for cooking, so something this difficult probably wasn't our best idea," he says. He leans over the counter and helps me get the dough off of my fingers. "It's in your hair too."

"Ugh. This is too much. The dough isn't even the right consistency. It's not gonna turn out."

He watches me try to get the dough out of my hair and starts to laugh.

"We have a toaster, bagels, and cream cheese," he suggests.

"Perfect."

I walk to the bathroom and run water from the sink over my hair to untangle the dough, and by the time I get back to the kitchen, Timmy is lathering cream cheese on two toasted bagels.

"Let's eat out here," I say. The front porch faces a beautiful view of a valley below us, and the lush green grass and bright colors glow in the sun's orange evening light. We both sit down for a moment.

"Wait, I'll be right back," Timmy says. He gets up and comes back seconds later with a bottle of red wine and two glasses.

He hands me a glass and pours the dark, bitter liquid in before sitting back down and pouring his own.

"Bagels and wine. An impeccable combination," I say.

"Absolutely," he agrees.

We both watch the sun begin to set in silence, just soaking up the stillness of the moment.

"Are you feeling better," I ask him after a while.

"Yeah. I'm sorry about that. A lot of things just hit me all at once."

"Don't apologize at all."

We have a lovely dinner just sitting and watching the sun set, sipping our wine and munching on our bagels.

"We still have some pasta to clean up," he says, when it's almost completely dark and we start moving back inside.

I roll my eyes.

"Fine. But can we take a shower first?" I ask. Anything to get out of cleaning, and I love showering with him.

"God yes," he says, throwing our dishes aside and wrapping his long hands around my waist, pulling me in to kiss me.