again nothing really explicit, Timmy's just fucking horny ✨
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Timothée looked at himself in the mirror. It was Thursday, three days since he'd had dinner with his family, and those three days had been consumed by guilt and anger. Guilt that he'd dragged Lucia into something she had no say over, and anger that she was the first name that popped into his head. Or, maybe, it was the other way around - he wasn't really sure.
He clenched his teeth together and stared at his reflection, at his hair, flat on one side and nonsensical on the other. He doused it in water from the tap. Ran a hand through it, tipped his head over and shook it, but it was no use. Pauline was right - he was starting to look like Bardot, (although thankfully he didn't smell like Bardot yet).
He looked a little closer for a second. Prodded the softness of his stomach. Wished it was tauter, wished his chest was broader, his ribs less prominent. Willed his skin to tan, not burn, for his hair to turn lighter, shorter. His eyes could stay the same - he didn't mind them because they fitted in with the description, Saoirse's description, the type of person she wanted.
He thought back to the cafe. To her eyes lighting up as she spoke about her date. Her gentle, joking words, which cut him deeper than harsh ones ever could.
He was like you, but my type.
Timmy got dressed, pulling pants over his legs and shoving a cap on his head, before leaving the apartment. He stole a quick glance at Lucia's door on his way past, debating doing something, saying something, but she'd be at work, anyway, and what would he do, what would he say?
So he did nothing, said nothing, and left the building.
It had been overcast all morning, the sky a brooding grey, and just after Timmy stepped outside, it started to spit lazily, like it couldn't quite work out if he deserved to be caught out in a downpour. Timothée hurried along. Kept his head down and his cap low, shoved his hands into his pockets, and took great big strides along the sidewalk.
Wondered if he'd think of her every time it started to rain.
By the time he got to the barber's, the sky had decided his fate, and was lashing down huge pellets of rain, so cold and biting it almost felt like hail. He took shelter under the awning and pulled out his phone, glancing for any new messages.
Paulie
So does this mystery neighbor have a name?
11:47
Timmy
Yes
12:39
He scowled at the screen. Imagined what would happen if he went through with it, more importantly if Lucia went through with it. Wondered if he could convince her to date him for just one night.
Because you could pay people for that shit, but an escort wouldn't cut it, an escort wouldn't have the bond he had with Lu, wouldn't be able to make it seem genuine. And if it ever got out that he'd hired someone...
"Sir, are you here for a trim?" a man asked, leaning round the door frame, and Timothée started.
"Sorry, yes," he said quickly, tucking his phone back into his pocket. He took off his cap as he walked inside, welcomed by the smell of shampoo and shaving foam and warm, soapy water. The man led him to a chair by the window, which he plonked himself into. Looked out of the foggy window as a cape was tied around his shoulders and the hair of the previous client was swept from beneath his feet.
"What can I do for you then, Sir?" the barber asked, running a hand through Timothée's hair as best he could, but it was straggly at the ends and Timmy winced.
"Um, uh, if you could leave it short on the sides and then long, well, longer on the top," he began, showing the length he wanted with his pinched thumb and index finger, only he wasn't really sure he was getting his point across. "Like that," he said finally, desperately, pointing to a picture on the wall, and the man nodded.
"Ah, sure, okay. Give me one minute," he instructed Timothée, who nodded back. Looked out of the window again, wriggling his feet in his boots as he watched the rain pelt against the sidewalk.
Timmy wasn't great with haircuts. Always felt like it was a bit of a chore, always felt like he was being too specific with what he wanted, despite the fact that what he wanted was always very basic and he was paying them for it, anyway. He usually just left it to the hairdressers on film sets. It made it easier for him to choose, because it was just, this is what they want your hair to look like so we're going to do it like that, okay?
And it would be okay, (although the bowl cut, well. Different matter entirely).
He sat there as the man snipped away, felt the itch of trimmed hair skimming his cheeks, the tops of his ears, falling around his shoulders. Wanted to reach up and scratch his head, but was too swaddled by the protective cape so he just gripped onto the metal sides of the chair and willed the itching to go away.
Then, there was the snick of a razor on the nape of his neck, and a comb in his hair, which was relaxing at first but soon became a little harsh. A bit of product, more hands combing through, and voila. He was done.
"Thanks, man," Timmy said, as the barber pulled the cape from his shoulders. He paid for the service quickly, with only a small, calculating stare from the boy behind the cash desk, which he met with a smile.
Waited until he was out of eye-range of the barber's window before pulling his cap back down, probably too far down over his head.
When he got back home, he checked his phone again, just as Pauline's reply came through.
Paulie
that is such a pretty name 🤩
go on
humor me
what is it?
13:15
Timmy
shut up
13:15
Paulie
you know its okay if she doesn't exist
I won't be mad
13:15
Timmy
she fucking exists ok
I'm just not telling you because you'll be a dick about it
13:16
Paulie
how dare you
that doesn't sound like me at all!!!
13:16
Timothée smiled in spite of himself.
Timmy
well she exists
13:16
Paulie
you know the more you say that the less I believe you
13:16
Timmy
I literally asked her out last night and she said yes
she's coming to dinner
13:17
Paulie
Last night?
You got home at like one though
13:17
"Fuck," Timothée muttered. Let himself into his apartment, toed off his boots, chucked his cap off and it went sailing through the air. Bounced off the edge of the dining table. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
Timmy
Yeah I did it over text
13:17
Paulie
OVER TEXT
you are so bad at this
13:17
You are so bad at this, he read. Said it out loud, and he couldn't have agreed more, couldn't have felt the sentiment any more strongly. Because now he'd really gone and done it. Now he'd roped Lu into this, now he'd made things so much worse.
He could have lied, could have said she wasn't feeling up to it, could have said he wasn't feeling up to it, could have said anything other than she said yes and she's coming to dinner.
But he hadn't, and Timmy could feel himself sinking through a vat of sludge, could feel it seeping through his clothes and under his skin, squelching around his ankles and pulling him further down.
Timmy
it doesn't matter does it
she said yes
13:18
Paulie
I mean
ok
but I still think you're lying
13:18
Timmy
why
I'm not lying
seen 13:18
"Fuck," he repeated. Louder this time. Rolled over the back of the sofa, landed on Lu's blanket (which he still hadn't moved), and buried his face in it, repeating the word until it lost its meaning, until it no longer sounded real, until his jaw hurt from the repetitive movement.
He rolled over. His shirt had lifted up, and he brushed his fingers against his sternum. Tilted his head to the side, sniffed out the blanket, reached a hand down to palm himself through his pants. It was about three seconds before Timmy realised what he was doing and fuck, no, no, nope, not happening.
He sat up. Stared resolutely at the blank TV screen, and what the fuck was that.
Timothée ran a hand through his new hair, stood up on shaky legs, and went to take a cold shower.
---
Timothée didn't think he'd ever been this nervous to see Lucia. Not when he'd opened the door to her on Sunday evening, not even when he'd knocked on her door for the first time, with Julius mewling pitifully outside his window.
And no, this wasn't the plan. He was supposed to send her a quick, casual text, spend the next five minutes making sure he didn't scare her off with bad breath or weird hair (although he'd woken up on her lap with his hair all over the place, and surely nothing could have been worse than that), and then he was supposed to swing by her apartment, so he could be the one to leave if things became awkward. Not...this.
Because he was going downstairs to check his mail and she was there, there right in front of him, and why was she there? That wasn't his intention, wasn't part of the plan. She wasn't supposed to be a part of the plan for a good fifteen minutes at least, not at least until he'd had a chance to brush his teeth and run a comb through his hair.
Because she looked over her shoulder and did a double take and stopped halfway through opening her letter. Smiled, fucking beamed, and he had no choice but to go over and talk to her, no choice but to accept her invitation.
Because she was tilting her head to one side and gasping, "Haircut?" and Timmy was nodding sheepishly. She was reaching up to ruffle it. Seemingly thinking better of it and circling him to inspect the back and saying, "It looks nice, I like it."
Because he was smiling and trying to think of something to say other than I told my sister that you're my girlfriend or I almost jerked off to the smell of you earlier or please don't touch my hair because I think I might cry if you do.
Because she was asking him if he wanted a catch up and it had only been three days since he last saw her, but he was agreeing like they hadn't seen each other in years.
Because she was following him to his front door and stepping over the threshold and slipping off her shoes like she owned the place, and Timmy didn't mind it. Not one bit. Not even when she hung up that ridiculous raincoat on the rack and it dripped water onto the floor. Not when she waltzed over to the kitchen and grabbed herself a glass of water, or even when she offered him one too, as if it wasn't his own apartment and his own fucking water glass. He didn't mind it in the slightest.
Because none of it was in the plan.
"Do you want ice?" she asked, and Timmy swallowed thickly. Nodded, and watched Lu float around the kitchen, his kitchen. "So why the haircut?" she continued, hopping up onto a bar stool, and Timothée seemed to remember that he shouldn't just be standing there staring at her. He had to preserve some kind of semblance of normality, even though he was picturing the many ways she would tell him to fuck off, tell him that he was living up to the asshole actor stereotype, tell him that any kind of relationship they might've had was over before it had even started.
Timmy bent down to unlace his boots. Grabbed some old newspaper from the recycling and stuffed it into the toes before lining them up underneath the radiator, something his grandmother had taught him to do if he wanted to get the damp out.
"Um, it was getting too long," he said distractedly, fiddling with the control panel for the central heating.
"I liked it long," Lucia mused, taking a small sip of water, and the ice clinked against her teeth.
"Oh," was all Timmy said. He looked back at the control panel. Flicked a few buttons he didn't need to so he had something to do. On, off, on, off.
"Not that I don't like it now, either. It looks really good now," she assured him readily. "Like, really good."
"Oh- okay," he smiled, and she smiled back. Took another sip.
"So-"
"Oh my God, no fucking way," she cut him off, not even realising that Timothée had begun to speak. She'd seen the middle school workbooks on the counter, and was bringing them towards her. "Can I look at these?" she asked, looking up to see Timmy with his mouth open, like he was about to say something. He closed it and nodded.
"Um, sure."
Her face lit up as she opened the front cover, gently, as if it was some ancient relic. Lu traced her fingers over his spiky, uncoordinated writing, as if she was trying to soak up the ink which had long since dried. She turned the page, scanned it, squinted.
"Your poor teacher..." she remarked. Turned another page. "They actually had to read this," she said wonderingly, voiced colored with amusement.
"Fuck off," Timothée laughed, watching her giggle. She turned a few more pages individually, and then picked up the book, skimming through pages of blue and black ink, bits in pencil, until the writing stopped and the pages went blank. She was about to put it down again, when a glimpse of ink caught her eye. She flicked back to find a double page spread of doodles, each funnier than the last, although perhaps the most interesting one was a man made of dicks. His entire anatomy was composed of them, dick stomach, dick legs, tiny dick ears either side of his dick face.
"How old were you here?" she asked, already snickering.
"Why, what have you- middle school, fuck, what is it?" he asked, rounding the counter, dragging a stool closer to Lu's so he could look at the book and- "No," he whined. "Fuck you, no!"
Lucia was giggling properly now, those great big squeals that made Timothée want to giggle himself. He looked over at her, smiling with his mouth closed, and she gripped onto his arm for support, hunching forwards as her laughs died down.
"You certainly had quite the, uh...active imagination," she smiled, nudging him, and Timmy wasn't sure if that nudge had been at his arm or his heart.
"Fuck you, it was...artistic expression," he laughed, nudging her back.
"What? Dick hands-"
"Yes. Yes they were. They were...creative manifestations," he shoved the side of her head playfully, and she shoved him back, her hand finally reaching over to his hair, and Timothée had been wrong before. Now she was touching his hair, he wasn't going to cry, he was going to fucking nuzzle into her touch like Julius did. The boy nudged his head into her palm, and she giggled again.
"Your hair looks really nice," she commented, threading her fingers through it, and Timmy had shifted his stool so close to her that he could smell her deodorant when she lifted her arm up.
"You said that before," he countered, and she hummed. "So, what's up with you?" Timmy asked, and she narrowed her eyes at him.
"I thought we'd gotten past the small talking stage," she grinned. Slumped forwards onto the counter top.
"It's not small talk, I'm just..." he trailed off. Smiled. "I just want to know, you know? Like, how are you?"
"How am I?" Lucia echoed. Timothée nodded, slumping forwards onto the counter and resting his head on his crossed arms as well, so she had no choice but to look directly at him. "Well, I mean, I guess it's my last day at work tomorrow," she began.
He nodded pensively.
"You quit your job?"
"No," she said hurriedly, her cheeks letting on that she was embarrassed about something. "As in, like, you know. Last day of the week."
"That's an odd way of putting it," he remarked, and Lucia pursed her lips. "Most people like Fridays for that exact reason, but you make it sound like a bad thing," he laughed, squinting at her. She shrugged but didn't answer. Jostled her thigh against his own under the counter top. Timmy turned his head back to the center for a minute. Rested his chin directly on one of his forearms.
"Why are you so secretive about what you do?" he asked. This wasn't the route he was planning to take, but he'd be damned if he didn't want to know the answer. Lucia didn't reply for a moment or two. Waited for him to continue. "Like, you're so...cryptic," he mused, trailing his eyes across his nice clean apartment.
"I'm not cryptic," she responded halfheartedly, and it sounded like even she didn't really believe what she was saying.
"Yeah, you are," Timmy replied, and it wasn't accusatory, just a truth that both of them silently acknowledged. "Like, I didn't even know you worked in a pet store until last Friday," he smiled.
"Well..." she began, "I don't know. Do I have to tell you everything?" she asked, and Timothee shook his head.
"No, but...we're friends, aren't we?"
Lucia hadn't intended on giving a response, but it seemed like Timothée was looking for one.
"Yeah."
"So...tell me about that kind of stuff, Lu. We might have very different lives, but like. I want to know," he smiled.
Lucia didn't need to be reminded that while she was plastering on fake smiles and slapping sale tags on out of date cat food, Timmy was swanning off with his beautiful friends to beautiful places in beautiful cars and beautiful clothes and just generally being beautiful. No reminder necessary. She nodded.
Timmy sighed. Dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. "I have a favour to ask of you," he began, and Lucia lifted her head. Blinked at him, because she thought they were done with favours, thought they were getting better and doing things for one another just because.
"What is it?" she asked, and Timmy shifted himself onto the actual counter top so he could see her face. He stared down at his hands, then at the fridge, and finally at her, and was suddenly so overcome by the hilarity of the situation that he burst out laughing.
"What?" Lu asked self-consciously, bringing a hand to her face to check if there was something on it. Licked her lips.
"Um, I kind of told my sister that we were a thing," he admitted, scratching his nose and looking straight over her head. He tried desperately to contain a grin, because if this went badly, the last thing he needed to be doing was smiling - if this was the end of their friendship, it would not do to be giggling maniacally.
Lucia's face was a picture. She turned her head to stare at him, her lips parted slightly. She licked her lips again. "Timmy, what the fuck?" she asked, and seeing that she hadn't yet taken the news badly, Timothée allowed himself a tiny smile. "Literally, what the fuck?" she followed up her question with another, squinting her eyes at him bemusedly. "Am I allowed to ask why, or...?"
He sighed. "Um, well I said..." he trailed off, bringing a hand to rub at his eye, and then he brought it back down to his thigh, which he rubbed slowly over his jeans. Lucia followed the path of his hand with her eyes. "Okay, so I was having dinner with my family, right?" he began, and Lu nodded slowly. "And they were going on about Saoirse, and obviously I didn't..."
"You didn't want to talk about that?" she filled in, and Timmy pointed a hand at her.
"Exactly, so I thought it would be best to just, like, you know, like, just...um. Make something up. And...I don't know, you just. I just thought of you, and it was, like, it made sense, because my mom already knew who you were."
"You talked to your mom about me?"
There was a pause in which Timmy swallowed thickly.
"Well, yeah, just like...you know, I told her you were my neighbor, and like. You know, you're nice and funny and you're cute- you have a cute cat, and...but this was like, ages ago," he cut himself off, pretending not to notice Lucia's face flaming at his stumble. "Anyway, I told them that...we were dating," he lied.
Lied because that wasn't what he'd said to his family. He'd said that he liked her, not that they were dating. But if Lucia thought the lie was that they were dating, then maybe she'd be more inclined to help him out.
And anyway, the lie he'd told his parents was too close to the truth.
Lu seemed to mull this over for a while.
"You think I'm cute?" she asked quietly, and there was a smirk playing at the corner of her lips.
Timmy sighed.
"Is that really all you got from that?" he chuckled, and the smirk stretched into a smile over her lips. Wobbled for a second, before it was there for good, and Timmy laughed, shaking his head.
"Um, yeah, sure. You're cute," he admitted, his brows knit together. "But that's like, besides the point."
Was it really?
Lucia sat up a little straighter on her stool. "I thought you said it was only your sister you told."
"Right. Well. I didn't want to like, scare you. I didn't know how you were going to react," he said quickly, swinging his legs back and forth. There was a part of Timmy that wanted to shift over, shift closer.
"Okay, well. I mean...congrats? I don't know, like, what do you want me to do with that? I'm not..." Lu trailed off. Shook her head at him almost imperceptibly. "I don't...where do I come into this?"
Timmy's brow furrowed. "I mean, you're kind of, you know. Already...in it?"
"Well, yeah, I know that, but. Why are you telling me? You could have just lied to your family and left it at that."
"Ah," Timmy snorted. "Well."
"Oh, God, what..." she began.
"I mean it could be worse," he said wistfully, and Lucia reached out. Punched his puny arm, and he reached up a hand to it in shock. "Ow."
"What the fuck did you say?" she asked, and Timmy hung his head to hide a smile.
"Okay, so, don't kill me, but..." and there was a pause for a moment. A pause in which time seemed to elongate, to stretch itself out, becoming thinner, more opaque, like taffy being pulled.
"What, Timmy?" she asked, and he opened his mouth. Grinned again.
"Um, there's another party," he admitted, and Lucia took in a huge breath.
"Oh, fuck me," she cursed. Shook her head. "Really?"
"Really, but I mean, it kind of wasn't my fault because it's your fault, really, because if I hadn't fallen asleep on you the night before then I wouldn't have been thinking about you at dinner and then we wouldn't be in this mess, and-"
"Timothée, I am going to fucking murder you," she threatened, but there was no venom in her words, and she shifted herself onto the counter too. Barrelled her head softly into his chest and started up a series of light punches on his arms, his stomach, and he whined in protest.
"No!" he laughed, fighting back half-heartedly as her hands reached his sides and she began to tickle him gently. Timmy squirmed away from her. Caught her wrists in his hands and held them hostage in front of her chest.
"Come on, please?" he whined. "It'll be good."
Lucia attempted feebly to get her hands free, but Timothée kept them where they were, following her constantly moving face with his eyes.
"I promise, Lulu. It'll be good," he pouted.
"Don't call me Lulu, fucking dick-hands, it's not getting you anywhere," she retorted.
"Lulu, you'll have so much fun!" he insisted earnestly, drawing her struggling hands into his chest, and suddenly, without him meaning for her to be, she was a lot closer than before. Her breath hitched slightly, and she smirked, averting her gaze. "It's going to be so good, you can meet my family and there'll be food, and you can meet Urdle-"
"Who's Urdle?"
"My turtle."
"You have a turtle called Urdle?" she laughed, and Timmy shrugged as best he could with his hands still wrapped around her wrists.
"Yeah," he said dismissively. "So, you in?"
"Am I in? Timmy, it's gonna take more than a turtle for me to pretend I'm dating you," she laughed. "Wait, that is- that is what we're doing right?"
"So you're in?"
"No, I haven't agreed to anything yet, I'm just saying...that's what you want, is it?"
He nodded.
"Can you let go of me, now? I promise I won't tickle you any more," she pleaded, and Timmy shook his head.
"Nope," he popped the p irritatingly. "Come on, Lu. It's just one night. We don't even have to kiss or anything," he bargained, his breath warming the gap between their lips.
"Won't be very convincing then, will it?" she retorted, eyes flitting back and forth over his own.
"I mean, unless you're desperate to," he laughed.
"No," Lucia said too quickly. "Fuck no, stop. That's weird," her lips twitched, and Timmy raised his brows. "I'm just saying...this is a bad idea," she said firmly, and Timothée shook his head, smiling.
"No it's not."
"It is. You know what I'm like with crowds-"
"It's not crowds, it's a small gathering," he protested.
"You said your party was going to be a small gathering," she retorted.
"Touché," Timmy grinned, and Lucia was back in that pizza place in Vermont, with her hands resting on the sticky table top and her feet nestled between Timmy's own. "You were fine at my party," he coaxed.
"Only because you were there the whole time!"
"Well, I'm gonna be there the whole time for this too, Lu," he reasoned. "I'm not gonna just leave you on your own the whole evening, I just...it will be, like. We'll just sit down and talk and eat. We probably don't even have to talk if there are enough people there," he said in a tone which was supposed to be enticing but really just sounded like a bribe that both of them knew to be fake.
She sighed. "Do you really have to look at me like that?"
"It's all part of the charm," Timmy replied wisely. He let go of her wrists, and Lucia ran her hands over them alternately. "I am literally asking you for just one night. I swear. One night, and you never even have to think about me again."
"I don't have to kiss you, do I?" she checked, and though he'd let go of her wrists, she was as close as ever, kneeling into him on top of the counter.
"No," he giggled. "I promise, no kissing. You just have to act like you're in love with me, for what? Four hours? Five at most. No kissing if that makes you uncomfortable."
"No kissing?"
"No kissing," he confirmed, smiling softly, and Lu reached out for his freshly cut hair again. He ducked his head so she could fiddle with a strand of it, and they sat there for a moment in silence.
"How do you plan on telling them we're not a thing?" she asked quietly.
Timmy pursed his lips. "I haven't really thought about it. I was banking on you saying no," he replied.
"I haven't said yes, yet," she responded, and Timothée looked up, her hand falling away. She smiled at him. "I can't believe you," she whispered incredulously. "I mean, what were you thinking?"
Timmy shrugged. Put his hand on her knee and traced the thread of the denim, scratching little lines onto it.
"That tickles," she giggled. Timothée looked up again. Smiled. Spread his fingers out very slowly over her kneecap, and she jerked away from him, her mouth forming a little o shape. She slapped his hand away, and Timmy giggled. Sighed. Looked at everything on the kitchen counter. The green light on the microwave, the roll of kitchen towel (which was running low - he needed to replace that), the spout of the kettle, the reusable coffee cup he'd purchased the day before.
"You know what?" she began.
Timmy turned to look at her.
"I'm gonna fucking regret this, but...okay."
"You'll do it?" he grinned, and she shrugged. Timothée lurched towards her and pulled her into a hug. "Thank you, thank you, thank you," he mumbled against her neck, and the angle was awful and her knee was digging into his stomach but it didn't really matter. "I owe you," he laughed, and Lucia rested her chin atop his head.
"If I do this, does it mean I don't have to pay you back for Vermont?" she chuckled, chuckled because she was going to pay him back anyway, somehow, at some point.
"I already said you don't have to pay me for that. It was my idea," Timmy shook his head, his cropped hair brushing against the column of her throat.
"Okay, but, we're even now," she laughed, and Timmy withdrew himself from her grip. Rubbed his arms, then his eyes.
"If you say so."
And then it was silent again as they looked at each other.
"So, how long have we been dating?" Lu raised her brows, and Timmy shook his head at her. Smiled. Shuffled so their hips were touching, feet lined up on the barstools, and let his head fall against her shoulder.
"This doesn't have to change anything," Lucia said quietly. Brought up a hand to push his hair back from his face, and Timmy shook his head again.
Because no, it didn't have to.
But that didn't mean it wouldn't.
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they need to kiss and they need to kiss BADLY 😠