Work Text:
December 26, 2016
I should get up.
Come on, get up.
There are probably pancakes waiting for you!
I urge myself with these words once in a while but my body is officially on strike, and I continue to lie here like a mummy. I feel like I could stay in bed, skip over tomorrow and just say, ‘fuck it, catch me next year,’ and that troubles me now that I think about it. I mean, there’s a nail trying to hammer its way into my skull, right at my temple, and I just know if I try to sit up, I’ll be rewarded with more excruciating pain. Who needs that? Let me stay and I swear I’ll be good come the new year. Yeah, I think my body has the right idea, give it what it wants…here, I’ll sign the papers.
Pfft…If only it were that easy.
I really shouldn’t have drunk all that wine last night though. I blame Pauline, I can’t remember how many times she topped off my glass. Clearly I still haven’t learned that wine and Timmy do not mix well. Maybe all I needed was someone there to remind me. ‘Hey, you got to take it easy on that stuff,’ a whisper in my ear, a hand at the small of my back steadying me, a soft chuckle.
I watch daylight filter through the blinds, entranced by shimmering flecks of dust sparkling away in the sunbeams as memories unfold one after another, when a soft knock on my bedroom door disturbs the quiet, and pulls me back from a different time, a different Timmy. Just as softly as the knock, comes a voice, “Timothée sweetheart, it’s time to wake up.”
I grumble a response and listen for my mother’s retreating footsteps. A quick glance to the Spider-Man clock on my old desk confirms that my mother is right, it’s past noon and I’ve slept in… well shit.
Okay Timmy, you can do this.
I untangle from the sheets I’ve been burritoed in and immediately shiver at the loss of warmth. Okay good, I’m sitting up now. A , Timmy. I steal a couple of seconds before I initiate Operation Bladder Relief to sniff the air, breathe it all in--it smells like it might be snowing outside. I go over to the window to confirm that I’m right, fat snowflakes are falling dreamily across the city. I remember saying to him one time, that I could always tell when it might snow. He gave me that peculiar look he had whenever I said something weird, the one that meant, ‘okay then’, and chuckled.
I knew when I first met him, while we toiled away the hours on the backs of bikes, that he found me amusing…cute even. He didn’t mind at all that I was some chaotic kid that would randomly insert these grandiose words and go off on tangents. I was grateful he didn’t find me annoying. I don’t know what I would’ve done if that were the case. And eventually… his look changed or was it how I felt about him that changed? Either way, his looks would burn through me, and ignite every nerve ending in my body. I had never felt that way before or since with anyone else. All it took was a simple glance from his bright blue eyes, and I would forget what I was saying, I would trip over my words and he would smirk. He was fond of me I was sure, almost as much as I was of him.
Six months later and I still haven’t been able to get back to the Timmy I was before I met him. There are echoes of him that remain, but that guy’s mostly gone. What’s left is another version of myself that I haven’t exactly come to terms with yet. Maybe it’s part of growing up, who the hell knows, but it’s unsettling. And tomorrow? Tomorrow, I’ll turn twenty-one, and that means I’ll no longer be the Timmy I was when I first met him, the twenty-year-old who spent countless hours in the Italian countryside trying hard not to fall in love with the man who preoccupied his every waking hour. It means more time has passed since I waved at him from the palazzo, as his van carried him away from me, back to a life I wasn’t part of.
It’s not like I hate my birthday or anything, yes, even it being two days after Christmas. I mean, I’ve been dealt a shitty hand in that regard since birth, but I’ve generally enjoyed my birthdays. People are usually holiday-ed out by twenty-seventh, but they’re good sports when it comes time to don the party hat again for the birthday boy. I’m just not in the mood this year. I know the boys are planning this whole bar hopping thing tomorrow night, and expect me to flash my ID with pride, but no - I don’t want it. Any of it.
I hear my mom call me again from the kitchen and I sigh heavily. I should have gone back to the apartment last night, but after the roast and the wine, there was no way I could have made it home in one piece. I freshen up in the bathroom and emerge more human-like, hopefully they won’t notice that I’m not exactly their shining Timo today.
Pauline’s sitting at the table when I enter the kitchen, chatting away in French with my mother, kneading some sort of dough type thing, when I grace everyone with my presence. She switches to English seamlessly and for my benefit which I’m thankful for because my brain just cannot right now.
“Good afternoon, Tim! Nice of you to join the land of the living,” she says it so annoyingly that I glower at her.
“Pauline,” I give her a begrudging nod and shuffle over to my mother, kiss her on the cheek.
“What’s all this then?”
I sit down at the table, watching her knead the goop, when she replies that she’s making sourdough even though it was supposed to be my turn this year to help mom, and being that she’s the best sister in the world she volunteered to do it, knowing I would need the extra sleep. I smile gratefully, and agree--she is the best sister in the world.
I notice that there are indeed pancakes waiting for me, and I nuke them in the microwave. Just as good, really. It’s when I’m shovelling another forkful into my mouth when my mother says, “Oh Timo, I forgot to say, there’s a package for you in the foyer. UPS delivered it this morning…poor guy, he looked so stressed…,” and she goes on about it. I drop my fork, curious now and feeling somewhat excited, head over to the entryway table.
There’s a flat package waiting for me with no return label on the front. That’s odd. I rip it open, and inside a plain white box I see a notecard placed on top of some tissue paper with my name inscribed on the front with loopy handwriting. I gasp out loud and cover my mouth, not wanting to alert my mom. My hands are shaking so hard that I almost drop the note. I know this handwriting, would recognize it anywhere. I had teased him about it once, had declared that no one handwrites like that anymore, but secretly I had loved it. And he knew that I loved it. I had stolen a page from his script filled to the margins with Oliver notes and had studied the curves and loops in private, marvelled at the elegance of it. If he suspected anything, he never said.
I turn the card over and see more words written there and I’m nervous. I’m nervous what it’ll say, I don’t want to let my guard down. I haven’t heard from him in weeks and he could be half a world away again and I wouldn’t know. I have to remind myself every so often that it’s normal, that costars lose touch, that really, I should be grateful he hasn’t forgotten me. I can’t react like I did when he had sent me a photo of him snuggling a koala a few months ago and I was shocked and hurt that he was filming in Australia and I didn’t know (not to mention that I had never been more jealous of an animal then I was when I looked at that picture). Yeah, he could be anywhere and he could have moved on and it hurts. It hurts because I’m still there, a part of me is still there with him roaming the streets of Cremona at night.
So this is a surprise. And I’m frozen, unsure if I want to carry on, maybe I’ll leave it for tomorrow.
Really? Grow some balls, Timmy.
I turn it over.
Tim,
I hope you spent a wonderful Christmas with your family. I bet you’re feeling it this morning, huh? You should’ve gone easy on the wine last night.
I’ve been thinking of the time when you told me how much you hate the cold, but you also love how pretty everything looks blanketed in snow. I’m sitting in my office, looking at the palm trees swaying back and forth, and I think I get what you mean. There’s a stillness and quietness to winter that I’ve never experienced before and I hope that I will one day.
Anyway, you’re turning 21 tomorrow, that’s huge man! I wish I was there to celebrate with you, that I could witness another magnificent Timmy moment. But I’ll just have to satisfy myself with the thought of you pounding back shot after shot of legal booze, getting sillier by the minute as the clock winds down on your birthday and having a blast.
Happy Birthday Timmy, and please… get shit-faced. :D
Thinking of you,
Armie
P.S. I may have worn this once or twice, I hope you don’t mind. It turned out to be a shitty vacation, my parents were fighting non-stop back then, but I think that it was on this trip when I first discovered how truly beautiful this world is and how much I appreciate it. I want you to have it. I hope you capture some of that feeling soon, Tim.
I put the note down, my hands still shaking, and carefully unwrap the tissue paper. Tears begin to form at the corners of my eyes, as I grab the neatly folded sweatshirt within. He remembered. I can’t believe he remembered.
We walked by a souvenir shop in Crema once, and there were all these sweaters with Crema stamped on them. They were totally cheesy but I wanted to sound cool, like I wasn’t just a sheep, and said that I loved souvenir shirts. I proclaimed I loved ugly sweaters too, and why did fashion have to be all neat and uniform, or on trend. He had chuckled again.
I can’t believe it. I caress the soft, white sweatshirt in my hands with a picture of a cruise ship, icebergs behind it and a whale jumping just in front. The words ‘Alaska Cruises’ are at the bottom of the graphic… and it’s totally cheesy and embarrassing. But I love it. I hold it in front of me and think it definitely wouldn’t fit him now. I bring it up to my nose and breathe it in. I know it’s fruitless, that he probably hasn’t worn this in years, but I smell it anyway, searching for a familiar pine scent.
I think my mind is playing tricks on me when I manage to pick up a faint trace of it, and I put it on immediately, loving how warm it is and how perfectly it moulds to my body. He doesn’t know this, but the weeks I spent with him, were the best weeks of my life. I already know how beautiful this world can be.
And if I wear it out tomorrow night, to have him there with me in spirit, well… no one else needs to know.
December 26, 2017
Fuck, I’m tired.
Am I getting old, is that it? Why do I feel so fucking tired all of a sudden?
I think about the last year, how crazy it’s been and it’s true I’ve been working a lot, but I’m not even twenty-two yet, I shouldn’t be running out of steam already. Other than the one night I spent in the hospital earlier in the year (just as a precaution really), I’ve been feeling pretty good. So why the hell do I feel tired now?
Yeah, I admit I had thrown myself into that film a little too hard. It was a project I felt I needed to do justice though, the importance of the film weighed on me heavily back then and the burden I felt nearly sunk me. I’m better at setting boundaries now, better at separating myself from work--but I can still remember the panic in his voice when I told him what happened. I promised myself then and there, that nothing like that would happen again.
Then through all festivals and the promos this fall, which have been a whirlwind too, I’ve had Armie by my side, and I can never be tired of being around him. Being thrust into the spotlight is a bit disorienting, sure, but he makes sure that I feel grounded. There’s still Europe coming, but all of that just makes me even more oddly energetic.
The reception for the film has been beyond my wildest dreams. Yeah I’m a complete wreck during interviews and Brian keeps telling me to stick to the script and not go on about feelings and things, but I think people like that about me. And going back to Crema? I’m excited and I’m nervous. I mean getting the chance to go back there--our ghost spot--it’s a little overwhelming but I want to be there again, with him.
My thoughts stray to Armie and a familiar ache winds its way through my body. I realize maybe this separation is the reason why I feel so tired. Being away from him, missing him this much is probably screwing with my system. And I can’t stop it. I can’t stop thinking about him when he’s away, I can’t stop missing him. Who am I kidding though, do I really want it to stop?
I think about the night after Kimmel, when we stole a few hours to ourselves. Fuck, was that exhilarating! We agreed to shut off our phones, just wanting to be together--just us. I had dragged him to Rockefeller Center to see the tree all lit up. He said he never had the time to enjoy it before and I wanted to be there with him when he did.
The look on his face then, the joy I saw, warms me up just thinking about it. I’m sitting in Will’s apartment, just a couple of floors up from my family home, and all I can think about while the boys get high and play on the Xbox, is the way our hands brushed together that night while we stood there admiring the tree. I thought he would consciously pull away from me then, just like he had when our hands accidentally brushed together underneath the table at the press conference in London, but he didn’t. He didn’t step away and we found ourselves coming closer together, shoulders touching, then forearms and then fingertips. I’ll never forget the way he looked down at me then, broad smile on his face, the way he sighed, like he couldn’t be happier than in that very moment. The only thing that lulls me to sleep nowadays is remembering the tone of his voice that night, deep and sincere, when he said, “Thank you, Timmy. This is perfect.”
There’s a loud knock on the door that startles me out of my thoughts. Will pauses the game and goes over to answer. There’s a bit of kerfuffle, and then he returns with a flat box in his hands.
“Timmy Tim, this is for you, bud,” and he throws it at me.
I know what this is. Somewhere in the back of my mind, December 26 had been looming, I had wondered if he would send me a gift this year. We never did talk about the sweater he sent me last winter, and that’s because I had drunk dialled him at the bar the night after, gushing about the sweater and yelling loudly over the phone about how much I loved it on his voicemail, and ever since, I’ve avoided mentioning the embarrassing episode.
I stand up abruptly and make up some bullshit excuse when they ask who it’s from and head to Will’s kitchen for some privacy. I have no idea how he thought to deliver it to me here, maybe my mom sent the UPS guy upstairs, but Will’s address is clearly written on the front, with my name on it. Did I mention to him that I would chilling with the boys today? I try to remember, but come up blank. I mean, I must have right?
I go to sit at the kitchen table, wanting as much support as possible in case my knees start to give or something, before I unwrap the brown packaging. Inside a plain white box, I find a note with my name written in loopy handwriting. I smile, bring it up to my lips and kiss it gently. I turn the note around, my pulse racing along.
Dear Timmy,
I hope you don’t think me a creep for sending you a gift at Will’s address, but your mother mentioned to me that you would be here today, and I wanted to make sure you got this.
I found this in Paris when I was there last and I instantly knew it was meant for you. Can you believe I found it in a thrift store of all places? They had a neat little display of books just outside their window, and I thought I’d give the store a chance before I moved on. I’m very glad that I did, or else I would never have found this gem. I think you’ll like it.
I know the last few months have been hectic, I’ve been feeling it more and more. I wanted to thank you for being a constant source of sunshine throughout it all. Your enthusiasm, your positive attitude, your encouragement has kept me going and more often then not, just your presence has been enough for me. So thank you, Timmy.
I hope 22 is just as awesome and just as exciting as 21 had been. Just no more hospitals okay? Or else I’ll be forced to come get you, and you’ll have to live with me until I’m sure nothing bad ever happens to you again.
I’m kidding. Just take care of yourself.
And I hope you had a Merry Christmas, Timmy. Maybe next year we can see the tree again, only because I think we did it wrong. I think we need to involve skating and hot chocolate, and make it a real New York tradition.
Thinking of you always,
Armie
P.S. Please, please take a picture of you in the sweater and send it to me!
I laugh at that postscript, wiping away tears as I unfold the tissue paper. I get flashes of green, blue and lavender before I unveil the sweater in its entirety. And I’m in stitches, laughing so goddamned hard that Will comes to see if I’ve lost my marbles.
“What the hell is that? Someone actually sent you that!? That’s the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen!”
He isn’t wrong.
I put it on almost instantly and make Will take a picture of me so that I can send it to Armie.
The long cardigan falls just above my knees (the patchwork of colors reminds me of the opening credits to Saved by the Bell for some reason), and I’m pictured throwing a rock on sign, tongue out. I laugh and thank Will for taking it. He’s completely puzzled at my behavior but shrugs, and says, “you’re weird,” before he grabs a bag of Cheetos and goes back to the videogame.
<PICTURE SENT>
[2:31 PM, December 26]
Armie <3
YESSSS! Oh Sweet Tea, you look dashing in that cardigan!
Actually, come to think of it, you look like you would fit right in at an old lady’s tea party.
[2:32 PM, December 26]
Me
Har-har! I’d throw a kick-ass tea party, just so you know.
And you’re not invited.
[2:35 PM, December 26]
Armie <3
Oh come on baby, don’t break my heart.
I want an invite. :(
[2:37 PM, December 26]
I guess all I needed to feel energized again are a few texts from Armie. Suddenly the day feels like it just started, and its full steam ahead as I figure out what I can layer underneath the cardigan. It’s pretty roomy… hmm that plaid shirt would clash horribly with it. I laugh, yes, that would do quite nicely. I’m looking forward to showing it off to grams tomorrow. She’ll love it.
January 02, 2019
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
I jump on the spot a little, big toe thoroughly fucked from the suitcase slamming down on it.
The cabdriver eyes me warily from his rear-view mirror. Yeah, thanks for checking on me asshole! How about some help?
The doorman comes rushing over as I gather more suitcases from the trunk, cabdriver firmly in an idle position. All this shit, seriously! I could have just brought a backpack with me and I’d have been upstairs by now face first in bed, blinds drawn. But noooo, it had to look like a proper fucking vacation.
The doorman, Pete(?), who the fuck cares, helps me load the crap onto a trolley and wheel it in for me. The cabdriver pulls away from the hotel before I can even mutter a perfunctory thank you, and I huff out in frustration as I head inside.
What the fuck is wrong with me? It wasn’t his fault.
I make sure to smile at Pete(?) as he passes by me into the service elevator, while I check the front desk for any messages. The nice lady behind the monitor asks for me to stay put as she disappears behind the door to the back office. I can feel my annoyance level skyrocket at this point, wanting nothing more to be able to take a shower, wash airplane stink off me, make use of the minibar.
Finally, she re-emerges holding a wide, flat box and settles it onto the front desk.
My knees threaten to buckle, and I grab the edge of the desk for support.
“This came for you, Sir, while you were away.”
“When did it arrive?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“December 26, sir.”
I can’t be sure what my face looks like right now, but hers is filled with concern all of a sudden.
“Thank you, Susan.” Name tags help.
I manage to get the door to my suite open through a haze of tears after multiple attempts, Pete(?) having already placed my bags beside it. Guess I had taken too long, and he hadn’t wanted to wait for me. Big surprise there, I laugh bitterly. How can I expect anyone to wait for me? I make a mental note to tip him when I see him next time.
Once I’m through hauling all the luggage inside, and the door slams shut, do I allow myself to crumble, box firmly clutched in my hands.
Why?
I thought for sure this year he wouldn’t. I think about all those furious texts back and forth, and let all that anguish and despair claw its way through my insides again. We had planned to be together this year, after all the promises we made back in October. We were both looking forward to some quiet time together, just us, no more stolen moments.
But they didn’t think it was a good idea.
I had pleaded with Armie to understand, and I think he did. But it didn’t change how each time our calls ended it would hurt me to hear how disappointed his voice sounded.
All I wanted for Christmas, all I wanted… was to be with you, Armie. You have no idea how miserable I’ve been. Please, believe that.
I know he can’t hear me, but some irrational part of me…the part that believes we are soul mates, the part of me that believes our fates were sealed the minute he barged into the piano lesson in Italy two and a half years ago, that we were destined to meet… that part of me hopes to fucking God he can hear me.
I need you.
I manage to control my body enough so that the tears dry a little, and I open the box, wondering if this one might be the last.
Inside, the note card, with the word Tim written on it.
Sweetheart,
I know you’re hurting right now, and I apologize deeply for the way I reacted. I shouldn’t have let you get on the plane without my full support. I’m so sorry, you have no idea how I’ve agonized over how we left things.
There’s no excuse for it. I know you. I know it had to be done. I was selfish to think otherwise.
I love you so much, sweetheart, if I deserve any of your kindness still, please forgive me.
I’ll always wait for you, please know that. God knows you’ve done the same for me.
I’m not going anywhere, I promise.
Yours forever,
Armie
P.S. It seems frivolous now, but I couldn’t stop myself from getting this. Thinking of you wearing this, draped over the tank top you think I hadn’t noticed you’ve taken, keeps me going in my darkest hours. I hope you like it. xx
My heart feels full it could burst right now. Before I face time him, I rush to open the gift. I recognize the soft green cardigan from the catalogue, and I can’t suppress the first real smile I’ve had in days.
I love ducks. Armie knows this.
December 26, 2019
I answer Scott’s text about tomorrow. I confirm the place, send a couple of emojis and throw the phone away so that it’s buried among the pillows on my bed. I flop down on the buttery leather sofa in the living room, the one Armie helped me pick out a while ago, and stretch out, hug one of the cushions to me, pretending it’s Armie.
We arranged for a couple of nights together, before I take off for London. I hate that we have to arrange things like that, but it’s necessary. I’m desperate to see him now though, and waiting for any period of time seems punishing. On days where it’s nearly unbearable, I fight hard against my desire to charter a fucking plane to make it happen.
I’m tired but I’m not as stressed out as I was on the last few films, glad I had less duties during this promo circuit than all the others, and was just happy to be part of the cast. I had a chance to visit with Pauline while I was in Paris, and with my schedule packed the way it is, I’m eternally grateful that the film brought me there.
I had missed her. She had been such a rock for me the past few years, I don’t know where I would’ve been without her. Her support…of me and Armie, just leaves me so emotional whenever I see her. But our time together wasn’t just full of tears and vulnerable late-night gab sessions, we had a chance to hang out with mutual friends, and those evenings had made me feel young again.
I mean I’m only 24… well in a few hours anyway, but I feel much older than that, with the way things are. Sometimes it’s just nice being able to wear the young adult hat for a little while. No matter how old I feel, playing cards against humanity, downing shots and shit usually does the trick.
Back in New York, knowing how close he is, yet still too far leaves me wanting. He had promised me that one day, when everything finally falls into place, we would spend my birthday together, and how much he was looking forward to that and I can cry just thinking about it. After all these years, not one of them together.
I start to imagine what that will be like. Maybe I wake up to the kids jumping on the bed, maybe Armie is right behind them with a breakfast tray, a beaming smile on his face. And the tray of course would be piled high with bagels, eggs, bacon, pancakes… all my favorites and all the more delicious and satisfying because the man I am in love with had made them for me.
Then I imagine another way Armie would wake me up on my birthday. Maybe he gently places kisses on my shoulder, the back of my neck, so gently that I barely notice at first until… well I wake up to a morning surprise.
Fuck, I miss him.
An annoying ring sounds from somewhere on my bed and I reluctantly go in search for it. That’s the ringtone I set for the buzzer. I buzz the UPS guy upstairs, excitement building in the base of my spine.
Last night, Armie was a terrible tease, not relenting at all on what I might find enclosed in pristine tissue paper this year. He had left the kids earlier in the day and had been alone at the condo, had dedicated the rest of Christmas evening to me. And it was a great night. Just thinking about it brings a heated smile to my face. That reminds me… I need to take care of the toys later.
I thank the UPS man profusely, make sure he has a tip before he hurries off. I take my time though, grab a bottle of orange juice from the fridge and head over to the sofa. I finally find a comfortable enough position to sit in before I turn to the package at hand.
I tease the edges of the wrapping this year, not wanting to create a mess as usual, and manage to open it without shreds of paper everywhere. I shake the white box, and hear a quiet shuffle inside. It’s light, like all the others, and I smile. Armie had his traditions it seems.
I turn the notecard around, the same stationary he used every year and read his love letter to me.
My dearest Timothée,
Thank you for agreeing to spend Christmas evening with me, you have no idea how happy I was when you said yes. I know you had to skip some family stuff and that they probably weren’t too pleased that you chose to spend it with a screen instead, but I can’t in all honesty feel any remorse for asking.
Every second, every minute I spend with you is a gift and I intend to take every advantage of it. If I play my cards correctly, you may even be feeling some of the after effects of what I’m planning to do with you as you read this.
I really can’t wait to have you in my arms again, baby. Until then, I’ll be thinking of you in this sweater, and nothing but this sweater.
Have a lovely birthday, angel.
Forever yours,
Armie
P.S. Please don’t wear this around your family, with all the images already seared in my brain, I won’t be able to keep a straight face around them if you do.
I sigh lovingly, Armie did play his cards correctly. I’ve been sore since the minute I woke this morning, but the slight ache helps to dull some of that want for him, makes me feel more settled. I make sure to place the letter on the coffee table and anchor it with an ashtray, afraid I’d lose another one of Armie’s notes, and open the the gift.
I burst out laughing. Where on Earth did he find this?
I don’t think I’ll be able to walk in front of a church let alone step foot in one again after this. Good thing, I’m part Jewish. There’s always the synagogue if I’m ever in need for religious salvation. Who’s he kidding? I wouldn’t be caught dead in this. No way would I wear it around the Chalamets.
I put on the tacky red sweater, undress my bottom half and cover the floor with clothing, as I make my way to stand in front of the mirror in my bedroom. I lift the collar down slightly, so that my collarbone shows (Armie’s obsessed with it), pout my lips a little, and take a selfie.
<PICTURE SENT>
[10:25 AM, December 26]
Me
How’s this for a thirst trap selfie? (angel emoji)
[10:25 AM, December 26]
Armie <3
Hmmm… you’re no angel. (devil emoji)
[10:26 AM, December 26]
A Face time call comes through.
December 26, 2020
I check the email confirmation for the entry code, and tap the numbers into the keypad next to the front door. The door clicks open and I step inside swiftly, weary about being recognized by the other guests on the property. I drop the duffle bag by the door, and it lands with a soft flump, before I take in the house where I’ll be staying the next two nights.
It looks exactly the same since we were last here and that hits me incredibly hard. Another ghost spot. I drag myself over to the bed, and lay down, letting the memories of a different, happier weekend console me as the tiny house stands quietly, devoid of any laughter.
He tried to persuade me to cancel the reservation, to spend some more time with Pauline in LA or with the boys out in desert a few more days but I was adamant. I wanted to be here, where we were before, where we had one of the happiest weekends of our lives together.
I wrap the duvet around me, deciding to skip dinner altogether and just wallow in bed for the rest of the night. I remember Pauline’s sad face when I left her earlier. She too had pleaded with me to stay in LA with her, was sure she could plan a fun last minute birthday bash for me, that she had already tentatively reached out to a couple of my friends here and they were all dying to see me too. But I said no. It’s not what I want this year.
It’s not that I don’t want to spend more time with her or hang out with people I genuinely adore. I’m not being a fucking masochist, but I don’t think I’d be able to muster the version of Timmy that they know and love. I am a good actor, but I don’t want to act on my goddamned birthday, and my friends don’t deserve it either.
We were supposed to spend my birthday together, Armie and me, finally…after all the hoping and dreaming. We had worked so hard for it. We managed to have a beautiful weekend here in August before we headed to the desert, had celebrated in excess, basking in all the freedom we were overdue. I had never seen him so light and carefree as I had then. Our future seemed assured, secure. We were so happy here that we had planned to come back for my birthday.
And the planning didn’t stop there. We made a new one while we laid entangled in bed, right here in this tiny house, and it’s a silly one, but I think we were both really into it. ‘What do you think about having a weekend together, no matter how busy we are, just like this, just the two of us… but like in every fucking state?’ Armie had asked, laughing. We may have indulged in a little pre-coital weed but the plan was sound in my ears. 52 states (and other jurisdictions!), 52 weekends… the rest of our lives.
But he had been forced to cancel this time. She left him no choice. I can’t blame him, I really can’t. It’s been so hard for him the past six months. Hard for both of us, but being away from his children was an entirely different yet difficult pill to swallow. They should have been home; we should’ve been able to spend time with them this holiday.
But now he’s there and I’m here.
I hope he’s doing alright, he never does well if he’s feeling trapped. I’m usually able to calm him, to remind him about those exercises he told me about that usually help him with his anxiety, but I haven’t heard from him today. It was definitely a blue Christmas, but the brief call we had last night was enough. I only ever need to look into his eyes sometimes to make it through the night, and it has to be enough.
Just as I’m about to decipher his expressions on the screen last night in my mind, to see if I missed anything, I hear a knock on the door, and a loud, “Hey Timmy, it’s Matt!” I wasn’t expecting him, maybe there’s something wrong, did he double book? Shit, do I need to leave?
I work myself into panic mode, before I open up the door hesitantly. Matt’s holding a crate filled to the brim with all sorts of stuff. I’m confused.
“Hey Matt, how are you?”
“I’m terribly sorry to drop by like this Timmy, I would have emailed you first, but I had pretty strict instructions to adhere to.” He did look apologetic.
He held out the crate to me, and I stared at his outstretched hands, not sure what he wants me to do.
“Oh this is for you. It’s a care package. Armie wanted me to surprise you with it. Told me specifically to keep it a secret.”
“Armie?” I take the crate from him, and it’s heavier than I expected. What the hell is going on?
“Yep. I hope you enjoy. And is everything okay with the bungalow? Do you need anything?”
“Uhh, no? I mean uhh--yeah…everything is fine. I don’t need anything.” I answer distractedly, looking at all the goodies in the crate. I think I spy Oreos, but I can’t be sure.
“Okie dokie, I hope you enjoy your stay then.” And he leaves, gets in his pickup and drives off down the quiet street.
I should never have doubted him, Armie, not for a second. Every year, December 26… why am I surprised? It’s just that he never mentioned anything last night. So I thought…
I place the crate on top of the kitchen table, and start rifling through it. There are indeed Oreos, but also: red wine (with a sticky note that says, ‘Just two glasses, babe.’), frozen lasagna, pre-made salad, Havarti, crackers, mini baguette, a tub of garlic butter, pine scented candles, a bath bomb, what looks to be an adult novel, a frigging bouquet of roses that aren’t even smooshed--and an assortment of other groceries and essentials that will clearly last me until the day after tomorrow.
Fuck, I wish I can kiss him right now.
This is the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me. Before I even get the chance to blubber like an idiot, I notice, right at the bottom of the crate, a flat, wide box, wrapped in gold. I shakily dig out the box, and lay it out on the table. Fuck, I really shouldn’t be surprised anymore.
I tear open the fancy gold paper and inside the white box, nestled on top of fine green tissue paper, is a note. But there’s a daisy that’s been dried and pressed that also lies on top of it. I carefully take the daisy, bring it up to brush against my nose softly, then set it aside.
My darling Timmy,
I hope you didn’t think I forgot about you today. I may be stuck on the island, but I still have a trick or two up my sleeve. Are you pleasantly surprised?
I figured you wouldn’t be up for cooking or anything, so I got you a few things that’ll be easy to put together. Please eat, baby, your belly should be full tonight. And if you have nothing planned for tomorrow, I think I know a good way you can spend it. You’ll find another note enclosed, there are few suggestions outlined there, I hope you’ll indulge in a few of them.
I miss you more than you could ever know, sweetheart. I wish I was there with you. But until I have you in my arms again, know that I love you.
I love you so much.
Happy 25th Birthday, Tim, not long now…
Yours, forevermore,
Armie
P.S. I saw this displayed in a little shop window off the boardwalk in Venice, and at first I thought it was quite possibly the ugliest sweater I’ve ever seen. But the more I look at it, the more I think I would love to see you in it. Pink really is your color, baby.
I’m laughing and crying, and I don’t care to stop either. I didn’t think I could ever love this man more than I already do, but somehow, he makes it happen. Maybe it’s an infinite thing, maybe our love for each other can never be measured.
I unfold the tissue paper happily, thoughts of Armie swirling in my mind, and pull out a pink and grey argyle sweater.
I really don’t know what he’s talking about… I think it’s cute!
December 26, 2021
2:20 pm
My mother thinks I’m hovering by the door, so I move to the living room.
2:46 pm
I call the concierge in my building. Nothing.
4:13 pm
Dad tries to lure me out of the house with Spider-Man 3 tickets, I decline.
4:16 pm
I open up a bottle of red, the same vintage he sent me last year.
6:30 pm
Where are you Armie? I miss you.
8:15 pm
My mother sends me home in a cab. I don’t know what she’s thinking. I only had 3 glasses of wine. I’m fine.
10:25 pm
I’m on the sofa, hugging a cushion. I’m streaming our film from iTunes.
Oliver didn’t mean to be cruel, but he was in the end.
11:59 pm
Nothing comes.
And I have no tears left.
A loud, incredibly rude pounding comes from the front hall, and my head is fucking splitting right now.
“Leave me alone!” I yell out. I consider calling down to the concierge and telling them off for letting this intruder disrupt my dreams. I don’t quite remember what it was about, only that there were a pair of long, hairy arms holding me and I never felt safer and more content. And this fucker completely ruined it.
The knocking doesn’t stop, and tears of frustration start forming.
I drag myself out of bed. How did I get there? Last thing I remember was being on the sofa, phone clutched in my hand.
I shuffle over to the door, muttering, “Alright, alright.”
I open the door, and the first I thing I see is a box. A plain, white box, no wrapping. And then I notice the hands holding them. Those hands that I’ve loved since I was twenty.
I can’t.
I’m scared.
“Look up, Timmy. Please.”
No.
And now I’m crying.
One of those fucking hands, reaches over, nudges my chin up. But my eyes are closed, tightly. I don’t want this to be a dream. Please, the universe can’t be this cruel.
“I’m right here, Timmy. If you just open your eyes, sweetheart, I swear to you… you’ll never lose sight of me again.”
Can this be true?
I open my eyes.
And there he is.
I can’t stop staring at him, and I’m afraid to blink.
There are tears in his bright blue eyes, and in their endless pools, I see echoes of the man who has loved me since I was twenty. He’s changed a little, a line here and there that I want to kiss so badly, and I’m sure I’ve changed as well. I’m not that boy he met, back at the palazzo. And he’s not the man who didn’t give a fuck about decorum, who went to give me a hug that first time.
We’re different now, but that doesn’t matter.
The only thing that matters is that he’s here now. And I’m here.
Finally.
He opens the box that’s he’s been clutching, and with one hand unveils the sweater underneath the tissue paper.
Our sweater.
Everything’s going to be alright.
Years later I had asked him, why every year he would send me a gift (or nowadays hand deliver a gift to me) on December 26? Why not Christmas? Or my birthday?
“Because I never wanted you to feel that no one will remember it. That your birthday didn’t matter. I wanted it to be an extension of one of the most celebrated days of the year and not an afterthought. I wanted you to know I had been thinking about you, that not only were you important to me, but you were more important than Christmas and all the holidays combined.”
Then after a couple of beats, I declared, “It’s just because you didn’t want to send me two gifts!”.
He pulled me down on-top of him and tickled my sides until I cried out in mercy.
I’m a lucky man.