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Armie would sometimes catch himself gazing off. Whether it was in the middle of watching Harper or drinking with Nick, he would simply float away. Caught himself thinking of the last time he saw Timmy, and when he would see him again, which there was a simple answer to.
Probably not for a while.
And in days where he listened to Liz talk for hours and got nothing out of what she said, days where the small nook in his life that he had worked hard to get to left him drowning and gasping for air, “a while”, was almost too much.
The thought that Timmy was out there somewhere, smiling, without him , probably hooking up (because young people still did that, right?), with people not him , was a driving nail in the coffin. Can’t delete the amount of times Timmy had referred to him as “a big brother” when their relationship was anything but, when Armie had given him everything and selfishly thought it would be enough to make Timmy stay.
It’s become a past time now, to think of Timmy trembling in his arms, out of ecstasy in Crema, out of agony in Austin. To mix the Timmy that cried when Armie first held him and the Timmy that cried as he wrenched himself away from Armie in his hotel, late at night.
Tried to recall the smell of Timmy’s sleep-warm skin, the wet smile he would give him after he had awoken, and the gentle touches that promised prayers. It was weakness to delve into the room he called “Timmy”, a room just for himself, but damn him to Hell, if he wouldn’t get this again, he could at least relive it until there was no more reliving, and the memories would be ingrained into his eyes.
Life imitates art, Armie thinks. Bitterness at the scripted words that haunt him, the happy ending that neither Elio nor Oliver gets, which becomes a curse that follows Armie to the grave.
If only he could become Oliver, and take his Elio in his arms, tell him that he would stay in their little world of summer if it meant loving him forever, and if he leaned in to kiss the lips of his beloved, Elio’s face would be a blank clay mold, incapable of giving emotion.
Because he is not Elio and Oliver is not Armie. And Oliver does not get his happy ever after and neither does Armie.
“What’s wrong, husband?”
Liz would ask. Armie would tear his eyes away from the window and smile the reassuring smile he has perfected. He would reply a, “Nothing, I’m fine,” before leaning in to kiss her,
Not a clay mold, not Elio, and definitely not Timmy.
Armie has learned to live like that. In a world of Timmy and Not Timmy’s. A division of life that drives him mad and keeps him sane. He knows that Timmy’s only a Facetime away, that it’s so easy to succumb and hear his voice and the laugh of Timmy, his Timmy.
But he doesn’t want him, Armie’s sure. Not after Austin happened. Not after they had yelled at each other, and lines were drawn, and walls were established.
Then, radio silence.
The only news Armie would hear about him would come from the news articles that gushed about “lovable Timothée Chalamet”, and the fan accounts that affectionately dubbed him Sweet Tea. But no phone calls, no “I’m sorry” over messages, and no resolution that usually involved Armie promising to visit and never following through.
But Armie was okay with that. Radio silence meant no one was hurting and no one was breaking off relationships. It’s all okay, Armie realizes, when it comes to Timmy.
Armie has The Final Portrait to promote and kids to take care of, and Timmy has friends he actually wants to be around and people flocking to him with offers, and it’s all okay.
The next time someone asks him about rising star Timothée Chalamet, his old co-star Timothée Chalamet, his brother Timothée Chalamet, he will laugh and say,
“Yeah, I miss him, but we talk everyday and Facetime a lot.”
And Armie will be lying to no one but himself.