ALPHA || TIMOTHÉE CHALAMET

009

(tw: brief mention of blood)

**********

So let's get to know the kicks
Will you sway with me?
Go astray with me?
King and Queen of the weekend
Ain't a pill that could touch our rush

These are the games of the weekend
We pretend like we just don't care
But we care

**********

Saturday night

Nicki Minaj blares inside our Uber. I'm switching between Instagram story videos with Lara and looking out the window, watching the luminescent city lights. People on the sidewalks and streets, the glittery dresses, lipstick and leather jackets. The city after dark.

The driver pulls over and lets us out, and we both shout a "thank you!", shutting the door and starting down the sidewalk. My shoes, black leather ankle boots, stomp against the ground as I take quickly paced steps, a cold breeze leading me to wrap my torn denim jacket tighter around myself. I'm wearing the sparkly gold slip dress I've had in the back of my closet, finding tonight to be the perfect excuse to take it out again.

"Down here," Lara says, following the directions on her phone, which lead to some stairs that trail below a building, the loud welcoming bass. We join the commotion of people waiting outside, showing our IDs to the bouncers before going in.

The club has a dark blue glow, light enough to see where you're walking, dark enough to fall in love with a stranger. There's a bar on either side of the room, the dance floor illuminated under an array of multicolored flashing lights.

"Over there," Lara says referring to the friends we're meeting, eyes to the glow of her phone, grabbing my hand and leading me into the crowd. We push our way through dancing, sweaty, inebriated bodies, the bass pulsing through my chest, already becoming swayed by the besotted atmosphere of Saturday night.

Lara's shouting meets those of the individuals who sit by the bar, her friends from work. We go through our first round of drinks, and about a half hour later I've allowed myself several shots, of which I've lost count. Maybe tonight I'll go home with someone new.

By now, our friends have dispersed across the room, Lara now somewhere on the dance floor, having left me alone with the guy from a couple seats over who I'd been playing a staring game with, and at last moved to the seat next to me.

"Here alone?" he'd said when he sat down next to me. The blue glow of the room's lighting rested atop his hair. "Looks like you need a drink."

I don't, actually, but I let him anyway. It's playful flirting, and then he's inching closer to me, his hand resting on my bare knee, and I'm taking swigs of whiskey. Trying to push down the unease, risking that it may ruin it. The numbness of the buzz and music make it easier to inch closer to him without my gut feeling imposing.

"Wanna dance?" he's saying now. In response, I take my glass and down every last drop of my drink, slamming it down and taking his hand, and I realize I've already forgotten his name. Or he never told me.

He pulls me out into the crowd of sweaty dancers, some thrashing around to the music with fist pumps in the air, others grinding like they might as well take their clothes off.

My body is buzzed but I am still too sober - in other words, I still have my thoughts, and they are intrusive, because I highly dislike the vibes this guy is giving me.

He's in front of me, fists pumping in the air, and I'm rocking my head and swaying my hips, my eyes closing, and it's just me and the bass. The commotion, the smell of smoke and liquor and sweat, my body releasing all of its stress, the colors of the night flooding my mind.

Then there are hands on my waist, and I open my eyes to remember he's still there, and his frame is towering over me, his hands now gripping my waist and swaying my hips with his. His hands move up and down my back, giving my spine chills, wanting to wake up from my drunken rush. His hands move farther down, and I try to pull back, but he only pulls me in tighter, now feeling his warm breath on my neck, and it's too late when I realize it's not welcome there.

I try to push myself off again, but he pulls me in again, and I wince at my butt being grabbed. The dancing crowd suffocates us together. "Stop it," and I'm pushing at his chest, only to feel his warm breath again as he chuckles and says, "calm down, cutie," his hand grasping at my butt again.

"Get off!" I yell, and I'm pounding on his chest, when suddenly from behind me I hear, "Hey, get off of her!"

A tall figure is between us and is pushing him away, causing me to stumble back a little.

"Whoa man, what the hell?"

"She told you to get off of her."

I recognize the voice immediately, and my poor inebriated heart skips two beats, while the sober thoughts say what are the fucking chances.

"The fuck, dude, it's a club."

"I think you should leave right now," says the tall figure with the curly brown hair, his dark form covered in the colors of the lights. I'm standing behind him, angry at him for thinking I couldn't defend myself, while questioning how the hell he's even here, processing the moment.

He turns around, hands running up and down my arms. "Are you okay?" he leans over and says into my ear over the music, which has started to die down for a break. The gentle timbre of his voice plants incomprehensible calmness.

"What the hell are you doing here?" I blurt out, but on accident, it sounds more accusatory than inquiring.

"Doesn't seem like she wants you here, man."

Timothée spins back around. "I said you need to leave."

"Why the fuck should I listen?"

"Because that's my girlfriend, okay? I'm gonna need you to please fuck off."

I need another drink.

The guy puts his hands up and starts backing away. "Shit, dude, she didn't say."

"Fucking piece of shit," Timothee mutters, but not quietly enough.

The guy stops in his steps and whips around "The fuck did you just say?"

I'm almost sure I see Timothee gulp. "I said you're a creepy fucking piece of shit."

In half a second, Timothée is pushing me to the side before the guy throws a shove, then a punch, knocking Timothée to the floor. People are pushing others out of the way, trying to clear the area, and I'm shrieking in horror.

In a span of seconds, there's blood on Timothee's face, the guy throwing blow after blow, before Timothée manages to flip him over and throw punches.

Bouncers push their way through the crowd, intervening and pulling them apart as people watch, some in horror and some with their phones out. My hand covers my mouth, sobs escaping my throat.