Timothèe Chalamet Imagines

❃sick❃

Your POV

I wake up groggily to the blankets being pulled off of my body, and Timmy tossing and turning next to me.

"Timmy. You woke me up," I whisper loudly. He doesn't respond, but instead whimpers next to me. I turned to see him wrapped up in all of our blankets, the sheets twisted around his limbs. "Timmy?" I ask, realizing that something is wrong. He isn't awake, but he keeps whimpering in his sleep.

I sit up and reach my hand to his forehead; it's extremely hot. His eyes flutter open at my cool touch.

"Y/N," he groans.

"Do you feel okay? You're burning up," I say.

"No... I feel sick," he says, his eyebrows furrowing together. His legs are curled up against him and he looks so young, whining in pain.

"Where does it hurt?" I ask.

"It's my tummy. And my head," he moans. I try not to laugh at his use of the word 'tummy'.

"Okay. Wait here," I say, crawling out of bed and flicking on the lamp that sits on my bedside table. I walk down the hall and shuffle through our medicine cabinet before finding some ibuprofen. I shake two into my hand, hoping it will knock out his fever. I then walk to the kitchen and get him a glass of cool water before going back into our room.

He's still laying in the same position, a look of agony painted across his face.

"Okay, can you stand up for me?" I ask. He nods slowly and staggers out of our bed. I quickly shake out the sheets, sloppily re-making our bed so that he's more comfortable. I then turn to our closet, and grab him a fresh sweatshirt and pair of sweats.

"You need to change out of those sweaty clothes," I tell him. He sighs and holds his arms out, indicating that I should do it for him. I roll my eyes but smile. I secretly love it when he's needy like this, and I feel bad for him because he's sick.

I peel his sweatshirt off, exposing his bare, clammy chest. I gently help him into the fresh one, and throw the sweaty one in our hamper. I then gently tug his sweatpants off, and hold the new ones open for him to step into, just like I do for the toddlers that I babysit.

"Now take these," I tell him, holding out the water and the ibuprofen. He swallows them and sniffles as he rolls back into bed.

I climb in next to him, flicking the lamp light back off. I crawl over to him, and peeling his sweaty curls off of his face, I leave little kisses all over his forehead.

"Y/N, I don't want you to get sick," he says groggily, already half asleep.

"I know," I say. I run my fingers through his chocolate brown curls as he falls back asleep.

"Thank you, Y/N," he mumbles, almost completely asleep. "I love you."

"I love you too, Timmy. I'll always take care of you." I see him smile in the dark as he drifts into sleep.