Calling Him By My Name [Armie Hammer + Timothée Chalamet | Charmie | mxb]

3 | Armie

Timmy and I talk about art and poetry: Guisepppe Belli, Athanasius Kircher, Paul Celan. We talk about politics, about our careers. Somehow we end up discussing Ancient Greek epic poems. And my dog, and his grandmother, and our favourite childhood memories. Just, everything.

"Glaucus had his wits taken by Zeus," I point out over wine, "of course he fucked up."

"But by that point he'd already accepted Diomedes' challenge," Timmy argues. "That was his first and biggest mistake. He thought he was invincible."

Another sip of wine.

"No, his mistake was agreeing to the armour exchange. It was only after that that he lost his wits. Probably couldn't handle the sight of Diomedes stripping. Dude must've had a hot bod. And you know the Greeks."

Timmy chuckles and we mull over this for a long moment.

"I can see how that metaphor works for Elio and Oliver," he finally muses. "Elio, willing to lay down his dignity at Oliver's feet for nothing..."

"Like gold armour for bronze armour. Totally fair, when you're in love..." I twirl my wineglass thoughtfully for a long moment before grinning and reaching across to ruffle Timmy's hair. "You'll understand that someday."

By the time we leave the restaurant, Timmy is bordering on tipsy, not quite drunk but more loose-tongued than usual. I have to drink a lot more to catch up to him since I have the talent of being able to consume massive amounts of alcohol. It feels liberating to stroll through the dark, lamplit streets of Italy with the alcohol burning in my veins and casting an ethereal glow on the evening. Happy and carefree, we race each other through the alleys, whooping and hollering and occasionally getting shouted at by people for disturbing the peace.

"Your place or mine?" Timmy surveys me breathlessly when we stop for a break, eyes ablaze in the moonlight.

"I'm still hungry. Let's see if there's anything open right now."

"But I'm not hungry," Timmy mock whines. 

"But I am." I crowd him against a stone wall, grinning when he folds his arms over his bony chest and pouts. "You have to listen to me," I chuckle gleefully, tickling his sides. "I know all your weak spots." Timmy gasps and sputters with laughter as I tease him mercilessly.

We end up buying crêpes from a small diner just about to close, no doubt annoying the hell out of the bored-looking employee who thought his shift was done for the day. Timmy says he isn't hungry but he's so skinny that I insist, feeding him bite by bite until he's stuffed. He gets whipped cream on face and I want to lick it off, so I do.

We stumble into my apartment at some indistinguishable point in the night, and somehow end up watching this awesome high school video of him as a rapper that makes me laugh until I have to make a beeline for the bathroom to avoid pissing my pants. The backstory behind this beautiful gem is that it was an actual project he turned in for a statistics class. Everyone else turned in these big, formal statistics papers, and he turned in this awesome rap and the teacher only gave him a D+ or something. Shame on her.

I went into town earlier while Timmy was at his guitar lessons and bought a huge bag of pistachios, so I pour some in a bowl for him now and we settle on the bed to watch documentaries. We fall asleep on top of the covers shortly after Timmy starts drunk-singing Selena Gomez songs.