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“You didn’t have to do this, you know.”
“Fuck off, Tim. You know I’d never make you go alone.”
“Well, it’s not like—“
“Tim.” I power off the engine, and the car sighs, sinks into itself on the small paved lot behind the theatre, blissfully sheltered from street view by a cinder block wall covered in vines. I shift in my seat to look at him. “I want to be here.”
“But you didn’t need to drive me.”
“Yes, I did! Look, I love Hughie to death, but his ass can stay at the hotel for once.” I flick one of the loose dials on the dash. “I just hope he gets this piece of shit fixed sometime soon.”
Tim huffs, gives me a distracted nod, gaze fracturing through the glass of the windshield.
The script in his lap is stuffed with papers that jut out at all angles. The pages of it almost look weathered, curled at the edges and fuzzy from stroking fingers and fitful turns. And I have to smile because that’s exactly how he treats everything in his life. He jumps into it, learns it, ravages it with a passion he can barely contain, erodes its hard edges in his own image, the perpetual artist unleashed upon an unsuspecting world, redefining what we all thought that very world could be.
I’m living proof of it.
If I’m honest, though, the fact that I’m living is proof of it.
He’s turned toward the window, hunched up in his seat, the cord from his hoodie looped up and tucked between his teeth. His leg bounces up and down like the needle of a sewing machine, making the whole car vibrate under the strain. I reach over and lay my hand on his knee, and its motion ceases immediately, the muscles unraveling beneath my palm. I let my fingers swish slowly over the soft denim, and after a few seconds, he exhales slowly and turns toward me.
I don’t know how he does it.
At first glance, he’s a mess. His hair is a tornado around his skull, untamed curls dipping into his eyes at the corners, the rest thrown out from his ears by the hood of his sweatshirt that bulges up around them, sandwiched between two t-shirts and his denim jacket with the collar popped. Saliva gathers in the corner of his mouth after the string falls to his chest at the same moment a crust flakes from the corner of his eye.
But then he runs his tongue over his bottom lip and his gaze connects with mine, and I am struck by it all over again. This mess? It’s fucking perfect. His small smile, no more than a tucking of his cheeks, is enough to dissolve any barrier I’ve ever erected. Prismatic eyes twinkle, and though I expect to see the nerves and angst deep in their core, what captures me is nothing but their light, his nimble mind going full tilt, working over his character, tracing the steps he has yet to take, a thousand varieties of tones and movements that he’s worked up and slotted at the ready, his own personal jukebox from which emanates the exact song that moment, every moment, will need to be complete.
And that’s all it takes. The world spins and is new again.
My hand stutters in its motion, and I think maybe this time I’ve been cool about it, that maybe he hasn’t noticed, but then his smile grows, a flash of teeth to mark his victory. I feel my skin heat, and I dip my face down, watch my own fingers flex against him until there’s a groan against the leather seat as he angles toward me and slides his own hand next to mine, palm up.
I bend my head more to grin like a fool into the collar of my coat as I take the offer and he twines our fingers together tightly.
“But it’s your day off, your one real day off,” he murmurs.
“And?”
“And you’ve been working basically non-stop, man. And you’re exhausted. And you need to sleep, not to—“
I look up then, tug gently on our joined hands. “Hey.” When he angles his head slightly, looks at me from beneath the fringe of his lashes, my heart aches a little more. “It’s us, Tim. You think I’m going to sack out and miss the few hours I get to be with you? You think I’d ever miss that chance, especially now?” I hook my thumb at the building. “With this on the line for you?” I snort softly. “If that’s the case, then you’re not as smart as the newspapers say, Chalamet.” And the shy shake of his head when I accent his name with all of the French flair that I can muster, the way he tucks his hair behind his ear and crinkles his nose, nearly makes me drop the seat back and drag him on top of me right here in the glow of the afternoon sun.
His eyes roll. “Yeah, well, they’ve got a few other things wrong, too, but who’s counting.”
“Not me.”
“You sure about that?”
It’s part of our banter, but it’s edged with just enough of those blunted pinpricks of worry to pierce my windpipe. I plant my elbow on the center console and lean across to him, run my nose up the soft edge of his hair, kiss the hollow of his cheek. “Positive.”
He leans into me, brushes his own cheek in a circle against my scruff. His mouth drags against mine and closes around my upper lip, his tongue swiping beneath it, gentle licks and a soft kneading that still makes my veins swim with warm cider. “You taste good,” he mumbles against my mouth, and I’m not even sure he knows he’s said it, but the sheer wonder in his voice kills me, makes me curl my free hand around the back of his neck and kiss him deeper, to dive into that well and coat us both in it, a protective shield from all that we will weather in the months to come.
“We’re in this together,” I whisper into his skin. “Always together. Got it?”
He hums and falls back, clunks his head on the restraint in a move that looks like boneless capitulation, but the sultry smirk that paints up every pore on his face in smug serenity belies his absolute command.
“Is the pedo-stache always invited to go with us?”
“Be careful what you wish for.”
“Nah, I like it. It’s sexy. Makes me feel like I’m going down on you every time I kiss you.”
“Fuck off.”
That gets me a sinful chuckle.
Jesus. Am I ever going to stop falling in love with him?
“You are going to slay today. I can feel it, Tim. You’re absolutely going to kill this, aren’t you?” I hold his gaze with a raised eyebrow, nudge at the script still nestled in his lap.
His hand reaches for the door lever, and with a parting squeeze, I release him from my grip finally so he can brush the hair from his eyes with a quick glance in the rearview.
As he steps out onto the pavement, he pauses, then rests a forearm on the roof and leans back inside. “Hey, Armie?”
“Yeah?”
He slides his sunglasses on. “Report a murder,” he drawls and slams the door shut.