with wonka promotions and interviews, he’s not had time to think about Christmas. with nothing but chocolate, singing, and dancing on his mind the holidays have slipped by him once again.

it’s not too late, overnight shipping exists and stores still have great deals, but nothing screams to him.

so he’s back to square one: promoting wonka, talking about the works of dune, and hopping on another plane. the cycle continues while you FaceTime occasionally from your cold desk in New York.

“busiest time of year.” he says shaking the snow off his jacket and boots. he’d just landed for the good morning America segment, and the only place he could tell the cab driver to take him was here: your home.

“it’s always busy in New York, chalamet. you’ve been gone for that long you forgot?” you spin around in your work chair to see him standing by the door, a tree slung over his shoulders, and a box of lights in his other hand.

“is that a real tree?” in slight shock you ask the dumb question. its wrapped up in a net and the smell of fresh pine over takes your apartment.

so you’ve also been a bit busy. having not had time to decorate with monthly work quotas and yearly ends to meet, the fake tree never got set up and the stockings never got laid over the fake fireplace.

“do you want to decorate?”

“no more talk of chocolates?” you ask give him a quizzical look that earns a light laughter to escape his lips, “no more talk of chocolates.”

it’s only been a week, and if you ask him it feels like far too long.

it’s cliche of him to say he’s beginning to forget what your laugh sounds like or how your hands feel against his, but it’s all true. a week away is destroying him.

and it would be safe to say it’s not doing wonders for you, as you’ve resorted to his clothes and sleeping on his side of the bed just to get any little bit of him that you could. while humiliation should be reminding you how embarrassing this is, you don’t feel it at all. you feel the comfort of Timothee that’s left in the sheets and his clothes.

the smell of him begins to linger now. unlike it’s previous full force of smell, only a whiff of him could be inhaled now that you’ve spent the past seven days in his things. irritation was growing as the number of days away seemed to increase, and timothees inability to answer his calls was adding up. you just missed him. was that selfish?

the infinite amount of text and voice messages fill up his Notification Center leaving a smile on his face, as he collapses into the chair to read through them all.

his smile widens reading your messages, they were texts you knew you shouldn’t bother sending, but you know he reads them. even if he hardly has the chance to reply, you know at some point he sits down and sees them all.

you: it’s only been seven days and I miss you. is that silly? anyway, I know you’re busy xx

Timothee: never silly. anytime without you is far too long. be home soon.

the summer heat is thick. with the air being stale, and the temperatures rising along the coasts of California, you’re bound to jump in that crystal blue pool any moment.

it’s a summer vacation, away from work and time with friends. it’s a vacation for the young 20-something year olds, where the alcohol flows and the tan lines form in the unbearable heat of California.

he’s watching from afar, on the top deck of the pool. he lays against his chair, allowing the warm rays to glisten his skin. it’s impossible for him to relax with the giggling of your friend group, but he doesn’t mind. he’s got his eyes on you, watching you stumble across the deck, sing the lyrics to your favorite songs, and mess with the material of your skimpy bikini bottoms.

after at least an hour of watching you out the corner of his eye, he toughens up, making his way down the stairs to the pool. all eyes are on him, they range from young girls to older women, he doesn’t mind the stares, your eyes are the only ones he wants on him.

you glance over from your phone when he walks by. the small pink swim trunks are a little baggy on his waist, but it’s a beautiful color against his skin. you can’t help but look a little longer, his curls bounce with each step as he sinks into the cool water of the pool.

you find yourself following his lead. getting into the pool yourself, the cool water hitting your skin makes you shiver, but you sink further in despite the shock and chill reactions your body is giving.

“cold?” he asks moving closer to you, his knee nudges yours. you just nod and swallow, you’re so intimidated by his beauty up close. those beautiful big eyes, thick bouncy curls, and a dashing smile.

“don’t need to be shy, love.” a smirk forms his lips as he moves a bit closer to your body, more than legs are just touching now, “I don’t bite.” his mouth hovers your ear, his hot minty breath sends a shiver down your spine making you, unconsciously, pull yourself closer to him.

“what does that mouth do then?” you ask, the thought wandered your mind, it gave you no time to filter through before saying it. heat rushing to your cheeks once the words flow into the air.

“lots of things.” the pair are like a ghost over your skin, you can feel them but it’s so faint. he’s waiting for a signal of approval from you, the green light to really show you.

“show me.” your whispered plea sounds like a moan. his lips ghost your neck once again, this time instead of pulling away they land softly against the coconut scented sunscreen skin, teeth sucking softly against you. your arms wrap around his neck to pull him closer to you, “do that again.” you whisper in his ear, your own lips faint against his skin now.

he does as you ask, soft sweet moan escapes your lip into his ear, it’s so silent, not even your own drunk friends could’ve heard it, but it was just loud enough for him, “been watching you,” he says in between breaths, lips moving closer to your breasts, “you’re beautiful.”

you chuckle, eyes closing, feeling his lips touch a sensitive parts of your skin, lips move closer to your nipple, where the cloth covers you, “not here.” you say, watching those big eyes flicker up at you, full of lust and begging for more, “later.”

his smile turns into a smirk once again, “there’s a later?”

it’s never this quiet in New York. the morning commotion is typically lively on a Monday, with the chatter of businessmen and women, the sirens echoing the city, none of that are present today.

you stir awake to the silence, it’s unfamiliar to you. checking the clock beside you, it’s just nearing eight in the morning and the beautiful sleeping man beside you has yet to wake. he’s got a long schedule ahead of him, commercial shooting wrapping up and cinemacon in Las Vegas, you begin to wonder if he ever sleeps this deep unless he’s with you.

he’s not restless without you, but it takes him from minutes to hours to settle against the lonely sheets when you’re not there beside him. he hates the long distance, hating that his job pulls him to all sorts of place, but the reward always feels good. the smiles on the fans, and yours, faces always make him feel extra jittery.

you move closer to him, chin resting on his bare shoulder, he doesn’t even budge when your arms wrap around his body. the light snores that escape his mouth still indicate he’s dead asleep and not waking anytime soon.

you curl your body against his, eyes slowly growing heavy listening to his breathing. he stirs to the tickling of your breath down his skin, flipping in your arms, he turns to face you. he buries his head into your neck, a little moan escaping his lips, “what time is it?” he doesn’t want to ask, he’s got no plans but it escapes him before he can take it back.

“almost eight.” you say instantly hearing him groan against your skin. he hates early mornings, he’s not really an early riser, so hearing the time isn’t even close to when he wants to get up, he sinks further into the mattress.

your fingers rake through his thick brown curls, you’ve always loved his hair a little longer than he normally likes it. the way they fall in front of his face, just make him look even more angelic than he already does. how’d you get so lucky?

he pulls away from your body, the sound of nothing is awfully unfamiliar to him. having grown up in the city, he’s used to the sirens and chaotic sound of the people, but it’s dead.

“it’s quiet out.” he whispers shifting upward in the bed, he moves your curtains apart from where he sits on the bed, there’s barely a soul awake. he looks over at you, “lazy day in bed?” he offers, smile spreading his lips, eyes beginning to beg.

“and how do I say ‘I love you’ again?”

“Je t'aime.” he says, mouth full of a buttery croissant you fetched from the bakery across the street. it’s your morning ritual, the boy who lives across town comes to your apartment and you get him “New Yorks finest croissants”— at least that’s how he puts it as.

your recent discovery was of his ability to speak a different language, French that is, and ever since you’ve been begging for lessons due to your upcoming trip to Europe. you could say New York public school systems failed you, as you barely remember a lick of the words he makes you repeat.

“and what about stop making a mess of my sofa.” you scowl brushing the pastry crumbs that scatter the cream colored seats. he mumbled a sorry as he finishes his last bite, a delighted moan escapes his lips.

“why the sudden interest in the language again?” he asks brushing his hands on his pants rather than using the crummy paper napkin that’s already wadded up and disintegrating from the butter of his hands.

“because I’m going to Europe in three weeks! I can’t look like an idiot.”

“certaines choses ne peuvent pas être changées.” he lightly giggles shaking his head watching your face scrunch up trying to dissect the sentence, but you fail. some things can’t be changed

you huff an annoyed sigh, arms crossed over your chest, “I wish I never bought you that croissant years ago.” you joke watching his acting skills come to life as he pretends to be hurt.

“now you’re just being straight up rude, amour.”

—

“so when a nice guy offers me a drink at the club what should I say?”

“J'ai un petit-ami.” the same buttery croissant fills his mouth, he watches you saunter across your tiny New York City living room. he admits, you not knowing any French is fun for him. it means he has all control of what you repeat back and what you write in your journal for the trip. this one might’ve just been the icing on the cake. I have a boyfriend

“J’ai un petit-ami? doesn’t that mean something else?” you question, head cocked to the side watching him shake his head in response as he swallows the pastry.

“nope.” he replies, reaching for the hot coffee you’ve provided him, he slurps the contents watching your pen move vigorously across the page. he thinks it’s cute how focused you are, he loves how close you hold the notebook to your face and how you spell out the words in a way only you will know what they mean.

“so are all French people assholes? I’ve been reading up on your people.”

he laughs, “my people?” he watches the red hue light your face, hands up in defense, “that’s what the internet says!”

he laughs once more telling you to never believe the internet, although he did play you into thinking the words “I have a boyfriend” mean something completely different, so maybe he is apart of that collective group.

—

“repeat it to me once more, amour.”

“Voulez-vous coucher avec moi, ce soir?” do you want to sleep with me tonight

he chuckles a little to himself trying to find a serious tone, “that’s exactly what you should say to the cab driver.”

you chuck an orange at him watching his hands go up in defense as he allows the fruit to hit him the arm, two of you laughing, “this isn’t funny, Timmy! I leave in twenty-four hours!”

he watches you collapse against the cream colored sofa beside him, legs extending into his lap, “how am I supposed to order croissants for you across the world?” you bat your eyelids in an affection way, it’s your last hope to get help— the pastry was already the key to his heart. it gets him to do anything.

“what a dilemma that is.” he shakes his head, fingers tangling through his curls that fall in front of his eyes, “just don’t forget your notebook and you’ll be fine. do you remember how to order?”

“un croissant š'il vous plaît.” a croissant please

“tu est parfaite.” you are perfect

—

his phone buzzes in his pocket, it hasn’t even been a full day since you landed in Paris and you’ve been buzzing him like a mad woman. it’s his first time being in your place alone, he’s in charge of watering your plants. he notices you’ve left him money for his croissants and an extra key in case he misplaces the one you already gave him.

“bonjour mon ami how is Paris?” he picks up the phone plopping down onto your cream colored sofa and pressing speaker so he can listen and eat.

“did you know j’ai un petit-ami is I have a boyfriend?! you lied to me!”

he laughs, the familiar sound spreads a smile on your face despite your angry tone, it’s nice to hear him. even if you’ve been texting him, his voice is what you miss right now, “I guess you’re right my people are assholes.”

“damn right, chalamet! and I learned a little something from the bartender last night, tu es un connard!” you are an asshole