Chapter Text
Timothée stood in the middle of the street facing the small road that led to his house in LA. He didn’t know how he’d got there. The last thing he remembered was walking through his house waiting for his girlfriend to come back home.
Now, this.
Timothée walked from the middle of the street to the sidewalk. “Excuse me,” He said, but the people just walked by. “Excuse me!” No answer. “What the fuck?!” He spun, agitated, trying to talk to the people walking by. “Can someone just tell me what day it is?! Hello!?” He stopped and waved a hand in front of the face of a woman texting on her phone. “Can you hear me?!”
“They’re not gonna answer you.” A voice spoke from behind Timothée. “They can’t even see you.”
Timothée spun around. “Who the hell are you?”
“Logan.” A young man, around Timothée’s age, stood with his arms crossed over his chest, leaning against the brick wall, pin straight, strawberry blond hair falling into his crystal blue eyes. “And you are?”
“Timothée.” He stopped in front of Logan. “What do you mean they can’t see me?”
“They,” Logan hopped in front of a passer byer. “Can’t,” He waved his hand in front of another person’s face. “See you.” Then he spoke really loud. “Or hear you!”
“How is that possible?”
“What’s the last thing you remember, Timothée?” Logan stopped moving around and focused on Timothee.
“Tim, call me Tim. Uh, at the beach house I shared with my girlfriend. I was waiting-” Timothée paused, his face twisted in concentration.
“Wait for it…” Logan hummed almost in a mocking tone.
“I know what this is.“ Timothee looks up at Logan with a grin. "It’s a dream. I’m dreaming.”
“Are you?”
“Yes, I am.” Timothée said sure of himself. Logan grabbed Timothée’s arm harshly and before Timothée could react he fell to the floor inside of a building. “What the fuck was that?!” Timothée asked, standing quickly.
“You’ll learn how to brace yourself.” Logan told him.
“Where are we?” Timothée looked around.
“We are in one of the city’s morgues.” Logan explained while picking up a clipboard. “Ah ha!” He walked over to the drawers opening one. He pulled the slate and it slid out, a body covered with a white sheet lay on it. “Go on.” Logan gestured to the body.
“What’s this?”
“Take a look.” Logan urges.
“This is supposed to be me?” Timothée points to the covered body with raised brows.
“Take a look.” Logan motions to the body again.
With a skeptical expression he pulled the sheet down and jumped back with a yelp. “Holy f-”
“You really need to chill on the f bomb, dude.” Logan cut him off.
“That can not be real!” Timothée shouts with his back against the wall looking at the pale body on the slab.
“Timothée Hal Chalamet.“ Logan continues reading. "Male, 26, 5 foot 10.5 inches tall, 147 pounds,” Logan moves the clipboard and looks Timothée up and down as if unbelieving of his weight. “C.O.D massive head trauma/fall due to accidental overdose.”
Timothée walked back up to his body and looked down at himself. His skin was white as paper, almost a blue hue to it. His lips were blue with purple around them. Lifting a hand he poked his arm and grimaced at the cold stiffness.
“I remember a sharp pain in my head for a split second. That’s it as far as pain goes.” Timothée answered the earlier question. “I was dizzy and-”
“Keep going.”
Timothée stood staring at his body, the event of what had happened playing in his mind. He lifts his eyes to Logan who is standing there waiting for him to come to the realization.
“This is real isn’t it?” Timothée swallowed hard.
“As real as you and I are.” Logan says sarcastically. “Well, it can be, anyway.”
“What do you mean, it can be?” Timothée asked and Logan grabbed Timothee’s arms and he was thrown to the floor again. “Come on!” Timothee shouted looking up at Logan.
“Sorry.” Logan shrugged.
Timothée stood to his feet. “Are we in a hospital?“ He looked around.
“After you.” Logan tells him, holding open a door to a hospital room.
“What’s in there?” Timothée points to the opened door.
“Must you question everything?” Logan huffed.
“Yes. That’s how you don’t end up in a bathtub filled with ice and your kidney carved out.”
“Just go, pretty boy!” Logan gestured annoyed at his many curiosities.
Timothee looked at Logan then shook his head stepping into the room. He froze seeing himself in a hospital bed. A tube was down his throat, a machine breathing for him. Tubes and wires all over his frail body. He turned to run out but Logan stood in his way.
“What the fuck is this?!” Timothée peered at himself in the hospital bed.
“This is you, right now.”
“No, it’s not! You’re trying to freak me out! I’m high right now aren’t I?!” He huffed. “That’s what all this is! I overdid it!”
Logan grabs the clipboard on the wall next to the door. “Here.”
Timothée grabs and reads. “Alcohol poisoning and opioid overdose, head trauma.” He says low. “Medical proxy Armand Hammer & Y/N Y/L/N.” Timothée had never told anyone that he made Armie and you his medical proxies long ago when filing legal papers. Why would he dream of that?
Suddenly Timothee felt like all the oxygen was sucked out of lungs, the room was spinning, and everything was engulfed in a blur then blackness.
Then everything stopped.