Work Text:
“Welcome to our facility, Sir. This way,”
It’s indeed a beautiful, luxurious building with tropical decor. It’s warm yet breezy inside, spacious with high ceilings and almost no people in sight. It’s Heaven-like in a way, yet indeed it’s a drug, alcohol and sex issues’ recovery center.
I hope you don’t feel imprisoned here.
Timothée settled on the loveseat, once he’s left in a small room with a balcony. The visitor guide he read said don’t mention about the issue, don’t comment on physical changes. Do talk about light topics, and be supportive.
Chill, Timothée. You can do this.
Being an actor, Timothée worked with notes and directions all the time. But this was no movie. After almost a month, Armie showed good progress and was rewarded with visitations. This was a celebration; Timothée was ready and pumped, but things could go either way. And what about Armie? Nobody knew how he was going to be.
The answer came a couple minutes later, when a familiar pair of blue eyes stepped into the room. That face seemed nervous, but as beautiful as Timothée remembered. That wet, slick, old-Hollywood-like golden hair still took Timothée’s breath away.
“Armie,”
They met in a tight, silent hug. These arms...Timothée had no idea how he managed being without them for so long. How he managed being without the warmth at night, or when he needed to be comforted after a funny day. Timothée was taking it all in, as Armie’s hand buried even deeper in his curls.
“I’m so happy to see you,” Armie whispered as he pulled away, “you have no idea.”
They met again, this time in a restless kiss. Nothing sweet about the way their lips searched and attacked, and it’s okay. Timothée held nothing back and Armie’s hunger matched his.
They moved to the balcony, and long they just stared out to the garden. The world was only the shy breeze and Armie’s heartbeat next to Timothée’s ear. They could spend the hour they had like this; Timothée wouldn’t mind.
“Be blunt with me,” Armie finally whispered to Timothée’s hair, “how do I look?”
Timothee turned around and he saw no flaws. Armie clearly shed a few pounds, but his face looked fresh. His skin felt soft and supple under Timothée’s touch. Armie was healthy and that’s all that mattered.
Timothée would only change one thing.
“To be blunt with you? You’re still a Greek god,” he said, and Armie rolled his eyes. “You look insecure, and you don’t have to be.”
“It’s inevitable…”
“I know, I’m just saying,” Timothée pulled Armie and kissed his chin softly, “you look good. You do.”
Touching each other was their biggest craving. Being here meant getting his control and order back; Armie couldn’t even jerk off. Timothée understood, and tried his best to help, keeping every touch more loving than arousing.
Of course they couldn’t just snuggle in silence all day. They moved in to the couch, and Timothee told some updates. From New York these days to his work; how he just finished with Cannes and “Dune” was to be released soon.
“People are so pumped about it,” Timothée tried not to scream, “I’m pumped about it. I loved working on it.”
But silence was all he got in return. And a second later Timothée realized his foolishness. He really didn’t need to brag about his schedule and fame, making Armie feeling all small and...insecure.
So stupid. Timothée felt like punching himself.
“Armie...I…”
Timothée didn’t know what to say; he didn’t want to make things worse. See, things really could go either way and that just happened. They had less than twenty minutes now and Timothée just wanted to cry. What a stupid mistake.
“Are you serious, Timmy?”
Armie tilted his head, his voice came out stiff.
“You’ve been that busy and still you have time to write me back? All those letters?”
What?
Armie’s eyes softened, and Timothée felt like crying now. Writing hand-written letters started as a part of Armie’s therapy, but they grew to love it. They cherished it. Timothée would make a special time at night and sit by the window with his pad. Some nights he wrote with big smiles, going back to some wild secret moments with Armie that not even another soul knew.
Yet some other nights, Timothée would recall a specific hug or kiss, and his tears would dry on the paper. He would fall asleep with Armie’s letter on the pillow, next to one of the man’s sweaters or old boxers.
“Even if I was on my deathbed, Armie, I would write to you.”
A drop of tear finally fell from the corner of Timothée’s eyes, and Armie caught it with his thumb.
“I really would. If that’s the only way left to reach you, to touch you? Yeah, I bet on my life I would. You mark my words, Armie. We’re together no matter the fuck what.”
And Armie had started to cry as well; hopefully of happiness. Hopefully of feeling loved. He said in some letters he did feel lonely sometimes, and that’s when Timothée would cry the longest to his pillow; the empty one next to him.
“Know that we’re together in this loneliness,” Timothée wrote once, “and we’ll meet sooner than later. You’ll be out and I’ll be here for you. Me and this small, messy bed where I fall asleep calling your name every night. You’re not alone, because you own my heart and I love you like crazy.”