Timothée Chalamet imagines

{Addict}

Trigger warning: drugs, alcohol, substance abuse and overdose. 

The cool summer's night breeze caresses your bare skin as you get out of the car, you can smell the saltiness of the ocean, you hear the waves crashing against each other, you feel the soft yet gritty sand in-between your toes. There wasn't much to see of the beach during the night, the water was pitch black making it look sinister, the yellow lights came from the houses by the sea and the tall streetlamps making the beach look less menacing.

"Do we really have to come here..." you say as you turn your phone on to check the time "at ten?" you question your best friend who didn't mind the time, they had a smile plastered on their face "it'll be fun! Why, you're not in a party mood?" they look at you with concern "I'm okay, the darkness of the beach is giving me the creeps."

You trudge along the cold sand, walking on top of broken shells and shrivelled seaweed. It wasn't long before you saw twinkling lights and a bonfire in the distance; there were plenty of people drinking and dancing around the fire, thinking to yourself that it might not be that bad. You are greeted by some people, some you knew, some you didn't. You sit on a log with a beer in hand content in watching your friends having fun; the fire crackled, the music continues to play as everyone danced on the sand, laughter rang in your ears all the while you started getting warm from the fire.

"Timothée's back!" you hear one of the guys shout down near the water "gosh, that guy is crazy...jumping off the pier at this hour" you hear another mumble with distaste "get him a towel!" a girl shouts.

Timothée walks to shore with a cocky look on his face. Water drips from his curls to his bare toned chest, his wet leg hair gathers sand onto them as he continues to walk to the party "THAT WAS FUCKING AWESOME!" he yells with a huge smile on his face "mate, that was stupid" his friend goes to him with another towel in hand "come on man, it was pretty cool" "consider yourself lucky to be alive" his friend was clearly worried about him but he didn't care, he mocked him "I won't do it again, alright?" he says without any sincerity in his voice "whatever Timothée" he walks away from the dripping wet young man.

You were getting up wanting to find your friend as you felt you listened to a private conversation "sorry you had to hear all that" Timothée turns to you "uh-I-I'm sorry I didn't mean to listen in" you stumble upon your words; you sat back down "don't sweat in" he runs the towel over his body "I'm Timothée" "(y/n)" "you enjoying the party so far?" he asks, you shrug "can I sit here?" you nod. He places himself really close to you; the smell of sea salt clings onto him and there was a faint smell of apple coming from his hair.

 After a while as he indulge you in his stories, even the one that happened before, it had felt it was just the two of you at the beach. There was something about his voice and gestures that kept you locked in listening clinging to every word that was coming out of his mouth. This was the very start of your relationship.

....

You open the front door of your shared house with Timothée with grocery bags in both hands. The blinds were closed; no light could come through, flies circling the tall pile of dishes and rubbish in the kitchen, the stench of rubbish surrounds the house and Timothée spread all over the couch; face buried in the cushions and lines of cocaine were left on the table. You gently place the shopping bags onto the counter before making your way to Timothée.

"Baby let's get you to bed" you whisper as you pat his back. He grumbles in response. You scoop your arm underneath him, supporting him as you lift him up, it wasn't as hard as it use to be because he was losing a lot of weight, it made you sad but nothing you have said in the past changed the way he was.