Archive of Our Own

“—Happy Birthday to youuuu!”

The ill-tempo crooning of The Avengers production team finishes on all different notes, leaving ears ringing.

Whistles and applause cover up the follies in singing prowess and signal the arrival of the main event. Out from the crowd of stuntmen, cameramen, makeup artists, assistants and actors— someone blows on one of those delightfully annoying curled party horns, the sound rocketing off the high studio lights. A cake appears, tinged green in the light of the backdrops and held high, teetering as it evades hungry glances.

“I am eating my share of that cake and I don’t care if it makes me puffy tomorrow,” Downey says under his breath while standing up on his toes to get a better look at the dessert.

Tom laughs and, really, tries very hard to remember to think of Downey as just Robert. Even though most days it still doesn’t seem real. The guy’s a legend, and anyway, it’s so much easier to call each other by last name anyway, with the amount of Tom, Dick, and Harrys running around.

“I could use a bit of sugar myself,” Tom replies, having no trouble watching the cake’s beeline for the craft services table.

“Uh oh. Here comes some sugar.” Downey warns just before he swings an affectionate arm around Tom’s waist and squeezes. Tom laughs, warmed at the easy camaraderie they’ve all struck up.

Tom doesn’t feel like the token Brit here, even though he’s technically the villain. And he laughs about it now, but he’d almost been afraid for a second, at the start of this crazy new film, that Loki would fall prey to that sort of typecasting. But Whedon’s outdone himself, the cast is full of amazing people and the experience has shaped up to be something spectacular.

He counts himself lucky, really. Uncontrollably lucky. It’s all like this amazing seven course dinner, a bigger sort of bite than even Thor. It fills him with thrilling tastes of the new and Tom views the anticipation of the last stretch— the freefall as The Avengers slides into the theatres— as an odd spinning ball of dread and excitement, rolling into something huge in his chest.

There’s a burst of cheers and applause and the sharp nostalgic snick of wax-scented smoke as birthday candles are blow out.

It’s a rare sort of celebratory moment capping off a long day of sweaty, tiresome takes.

More often than not, the movie-making process is a severely disjointed venture. There are so many people involved in producing blockbusters, a true group hug of epic proportions isn’t exactly conceivable. Isn’t something they usually have time for or get a chance to appreciate. So, Tom likes to think of it as being part of a constellation—that they’re all indiscernible bright spots, coming together to form the big picture. A sort of heavenly embrace, closing them all into something beautiful.

But that’s almost a little too poetic a thought. Since real life on movie sets? Is actually just a jumbled mess.

Except the odd instance when someone’s birthday rolls around. All of a sudden, the whole team is assembled! Because, well, cake just has a way of doing that.

The promise of sugar and innocent celebration has everyone clamouring together, clapping each other on the back, taking the excuse for a break to smile at each other and catch up. And even if you don’t know the birthday boy or girl personally, it doesn’t matter if you’re not invited to the party— Word gets out, plastic forks get shared. In a lot of ways, a birthday on set is more effective than the Bat Signal.

But that reference is neither Marvel nor Disney and so he shouldn’t even compare.

Wouldn’t that be something though? Tom smiles idly to himself, rocking back on his heels. Instead of Loki ramming a spear through Agent Coulson, couldn’t they all just have their cake and eat it too? Tom’s lip twitches in amusement at the thought as a paper plate with a small slice of just that is plunked into his hands.

The thick crowd of production crew disperses and that’s when Tom spots him. Chris Hemsworth, swathed in a plaid robe and coming to the party, a little fashionably late. Predictably, all the cake is gone.

“I miss all the fun?” Chris asks in a low tone coloured with a hint of laughter as his eyes skirt around the barren crafts services table. There are a few twigs of grapes left and a couple packs of those crackers that no one ever seems to like.

“Nonsense, it’s not a party until you walk in,” Tom jokes, earning an amused eye roll and snort from Chris.

Tom can’t help but keep thinking of Chris as ‘Chris’ even though there are about a hundred of the same on set at any given time. It’s no use. He and Chris have come a lot farther than just surnames after all.

“If by fun you mean this delicious fluffy cheap white cake, then yes,” Downey announces with a flourish, tossing away his polished off paper plate. “Although I’ll probably be regretting that fun later.”

Tom feels a pang as he notices Chris pluck up a bottled water.

“Would you like some of mine?” Tom offers politely as he can while gesturing to his (surely offensive) half-eaten dessert, a lump already on his fork.

“Nah, don’t worry about it. I don’t think I can.” Chris says this around gulps from the bottle and claps his free hand onto the space between Tom’s neck and shoulder, digging in a comfortable thumb and drawing small circles.

Downey snorts.

The sound makes Tom start a bit. He knows he’s sort of... hovering. Knows that he’s probably got that silly doting look about him that Downey obviously recognizes. It’s happened more than once. He’s grown to be a bit protective, of Chris. Of the friendship they share.

There are the beginnings of a flush to Tom’s cheeks as he spies the older man eyeing him with glee. Tom quickly pops the fork into his mouth to chew on the small cake morsel.

It’s not just Robert Downey. Tom knows it’s a little hard not to notice. Knows everyone knows. Except maybe Chris.

Chris has still got that half-wig in, the tips of the long frazzled extensions just barely brushing his collarbone as he glugs more cool liquid down. Chris puts the water away as if he’s just returned from the desert, and maybe that’s true. It’s a common occurrence to come in from the sun-baked asphalt in full costume and feel like doing a great impression of a melting tire.

As if taking Tom’s private direction, Chris lets go and heaves a loud sigh as he slumps, then stretches, closing his eyes until a vicious pop of the joints is heard. Tom tilts his head and scrapes designs into the frosting on his plate.

“Mhhngg, wearing a cape is not fun—”

“You mean drapes,” Downey smirks, rocking back on his heels.

“Hey, don’t start that again.” Chris chugs another thick gulp and gives Tom a little shove forwards with a raised eyebrow. His next line comes in a more Thor-like voice, “My brother shall kick your ass in my stead.”

With a mouth full of cake, Tom’s certain he doesn’t look like much of a threat and just shrugs. At that, Downey bursts into laughter just before his smart phone goes off and he’s hitting the button to talk.

Tom snickers and can’t help the smile that threatens to unfurl his lips from around the sticky bite of cake. He presses a papery serviette to his mouth, wiping away errant frosting and sprinkles.

Tom adores sugary things, indulges in them, really, to the point where even the press has started to accuse him of a so-called pudding addiction. In actuality, anything that sends that tingling sweet flavour coursing through Tom’s veins is endearing.

So, it’s for that reason why it’s hard not to indulge.

In Chris.

Because he’s the sweetest one of all.

By now it feels like it’s always been this way— this reaction, the onset of symptoms that parade themselves on Tom’s face so very comically. It’s almost ironic, in a clichéd rom-com way.

In fact, it’s all pretty simple, if Tom takes the time to stop and analyze. But he doesn’t, and even if he did, his critique wouldn’t stop the way the feelings flood in, a thick glazing over from head to toe to mind to heart. It’s something that sneaks in as if entitled, belonging. Like a horribly mushy jelly filling that gets injected, pushing away Tom’s better judgement with something so delicious, each time Chris comes around.

Tom’s actually kind of spoilt, for all the breathless good it makes him feel and not an inch of worry or guilt or shame over what this confection-like affection could mean.

Because what’s not to love about Chris Hemsworth?

Tom swallows the sugary cake as his blood starts to pump faster, a result of a wildly thumping heart. Sometimes this love for Chris makes him do loony things, more loon-ish than usual anyway. Sometimes he’ll even break out into a little jig on the spot. He stays mostly still now though, the corners of his mouth dancing up and down as he fights yet another smile.

As if sensing Tom’s unrest, Chris easily flicks an extra drop of water from his hand at Tom before jabbing him lightly in the ribs, unknowing of Tom’s utter pleasure for these sweet simple things.

Or perhaps he does know. Tom sometimes allows himself to think this, when Chris smiles back at him, chuckles even, and flicks a few more water drops. Perhaps it’s a kind of mutual thing, their character bromance, in the face of a much bigger venture. A little bit of pudding on the side of a really fantastic meal.

Tom wished he had a clue though, some sort of marker, a way to see his own feelings reflected back on Chris’ face.

Tom nudges Chris on the ankle with a prod of a boot tip, his breath feeling shallow when Chris lightly kicks him back. It’s as if the air isn’t enough, like he needs something deeper to drink in to weigh him down in the midst of a light-headed swirl. Suddenly, he’s parched. His fingertips on the plastic fork start to buzz.

No, this feeling isn’t new. But it’s gotten to the point where Tom thinks of overindulging, just a bit, if he could. If that were possible.

But as it stands, this is just another bright spot he can look on fondly. This affection for Chris, unmovable and yet ever growing. A beautiful little star, one that would fit into Tom’s big picture perfectly, if only for the fact that Chris would never see.

“Oh, come on,” Tom needles, grinning at the playfully stern look that tightens up Chris’ warm features as he waves a new clump of cake and frosting on the fork like a maestro with a baton. “Surely you can have just one piece?”

“No fucking way,” Chris laughs, batting away his hand easily. “You have no idea, mate. I can’t.”

“Not even one?”

“Nope,” Chris gives a solemn shake of the head.

“Okay,” Tom devours the bite of cake and brandishes the fork, still coated with thick frosting. “One lick?”

“Eurgh,” Chris is laughing without reservation now, “Not that one!”

“One sprinkle?” Tom coaxes and—there goes that loony behaviour— he’s got a tiny sugar bit on his finger.

And, oh. Downey just paused in his phone call to send a look over the rim of his glasses at Tom for that one.

Chris actually seems tempted, but in that good natured humouring way of his.

“Prooobably not. It’s the end of the day, I don’t need more energy. It’s a delicate balance, one wrong move and—bam!” He punches his fists together, “The mood swings hit, the sugar crash—”

There’s a loud blare of a curly noisemaker and Jeremy Renner comes congo-lining with Scarlett Johansson, Chris Evans and Mark Ruffalo in tow.

“Party favours, gentlemen!” Johansson gestures, a smorgasbord of colourful party hats stacked together in a bag held at her hip. Evans already has a glittery blue number perched atop his head. Ruffalo’s is green.

“I thought we were just slacking off now, not still partying.” Chris jokes as he tosses his now-empty water bottle, “Whose birthday is it?”

Renner favours them with two bleats on the horn and a baleful look, hands on hips in a reprimanding sort of way. “Seriously? You’re awful.”

Tom immediately apologizes, setting aside his finished plate, “I’m sorry, Jeremy, Happy Birth—”

“As much as he loves getting older,” Johansson interrupts with a smirk, “It’s actually mine.”

“Baby, you’re all grown up,” Renner bats his eyelashes and they all laugh when he gets an elbow in the ribs in reply.

In retaliation, they attack the birthday girl with hugs and kisses on the cheeks.

“Argh, enough! Enough!” She bats them away and is swinging the bag of party goods hanging from her arm once more. “Suit up, gentlemen. You’re not invited to my house party without proper attire.”

“Right now?” Tom blinks.

“Yup,” Johansson replies matter-of-factly, adjusting her own hat. “Well, I’ll let you get out of your leather pants first, if you want.”

Chris swings a friendly arm around Tom’s shoulders, “Well known secret? Tom never gets out of the leather pants.”

This only serves to spur the rest of the cast to send various knowing looks straight at Tom. He careens backwards in a laugh.

“Guilty as charged!”

“So there’s a real party?” Downey crows and claps his hands together, “Alright! Give me the best ceremonial chapeau there is.”

He has the most pleased expression when Evans hands over a King’s crown.

“That’s hardly fair,” Tom grins, smoothly breaking away from Chris and picking through the selection. He decides on a sparkly orange number. “I wanted that crown.”

Evans snorts, “I dunno, looks like he’s just walked out of Burger King.”

Downey gasps and then winks, “Have it your way.”

“Worth a shot.”

Tom turns to Chris, who’s rubbing a smooth thumbnail across his bottom lip contemplatively, eyeing the party hats like they’re sugar too. “Thor’s the king, anyway. Right?”

“Not today!” Downey gives his crown a good jaunty tilt.

“Fine by me,” Chris’ eyebrows quirk up and he pushes pursed lips against his thumb, making that delightfully confused pouty expression he sometimes gets.

“Hey,” Ruffalo compromises, plucking a dangling pearly item from the now sad-looking collection, “There’s still a tiara! ”

“Hah!” Chris barks in surprise, a loud sound that actually makes Tom jump.

“Nonsense,” Downey joins in, feeding off of the amused faces of their gang as he snatches the tiara from Ruffalo’s dangling grip. He holds it aloft with arm stretched out and squints one eye, as if he’s picturing it perched atop Chris’ head already. “Perfect.”

“Nope,” Chris shrugs, easily slanting out of Downey’s line of sight, scratching idly at an elbow.

“Tease!” Evans crows.

Chris laughs.

But there’s something bashful about it, in a way. Different from Chris’ normally down-to-earth humour. It makes Tom pause. And in that moment he’s watching Chris so intently that he’s taken by surprise when the tiara’s slapped into his chest by a smirking Downey. Tom’s hands automatically come up to catch it.

“Go on, put it on the Princess! ”

Chris blinks and his full lips fall open in something akin to surprise, a slight rosiness coming to his cheeks.

Oh. Tom stares back. That’s different.

And just like that, it’s a light switch. A sudden clap that drives away a dark Tom hadn’t even realized was there.

Chris has always been so charming, for such a typically alpha male kind of guy. And it’s hard not to notice what a man Chris makes, with biceps the size of Tom’s head and that wonderfully rumbling voice. Sometimes it’s hard to understand how someone who’s the walking definition of manhood could ever be so beautifully kind, sensitive, sweet.

But it’s in this moment, this one in particular, as Tom smiles and wiggles the party tiara at Chris in question, that he thinks he may get it. Get why.

The near coy look that overcomes Chris’ features sends a pang straight through Tom’s limbs all the way down to his toes and back up again, a surge of warmth at the endearing of it. Like a shiver after eating something so sweet it could almost kill you.

Chris snorts in laughter again, purses his lips and rubs his nose. This time his eyes slide away, the apples of his cheeks growing ripe under the group’s scrutiny.

Then he shrugs and bows just enough.

“Fine, alright.”

A sort of dawning realization reaches out to Tom and then smacks him squarely in the face.

He’s seen this reaction once before, after all.

Back on the set of Thor. There was a scene, with the Frost Giants, and it took so many takes. He’d found it unusual at the time, which is the only reason it sticks out to him now.

Because Chris didn’t break character often.

It was easy for him, to play Thor. He’d told Tom this one day between set changes. They were similar. Thor’s simple.

Tom disagreed. But maybe he was judging with bias. For Chris Hemsworth was anything but simple.

He’s suddenly struck by the memory now, the way Chris couldn’t keep a shy smile at bay, rubbing his nose in awkwardness during that scene. Each time the word Princess was thrown at him.

Tom had thought he was merely embarrassed, or too cracked up by the absurdity of it. Chris didn’t look to have a feminine bone in his body. It would be silly, then, wouldn’t it? To call him that.

And yet, here it is again. That word, that smile, that sort of flustered excitement, all of which wisp across Chris’ face in the most delightful of expressions.

When Tom slips the tiara on for him, he gives one golden lock a little tug, to pull things back into perspective. Ground it. And Chris shoves him happily in reply. That’s the way they work. If a good ribbing with words isn’t on the table, then a little roughhousing is just what the doctor ordered.

Naturally, there are catcalls. The tiara is small, and pearly, and very princess-y. And Chris tips his head back, rolling his eyes, but the flush is stealing over and it’s stolen a bit of Tom too.

Could it really be that simple?

This is one of those otherwise hidden bright spots, and Tom can’t turn away, can’t nearly believe it as it flares to life with sudden alacrity right before his eyes. Another beautiful little star. A teaspoon of sparkling sugar.

Shining in Chris Hemsworth. All from a single word.

Tom bites his lip to control a smile, at the sudden dangerous desire courses through him. Can’t help it, as the words tumble from his mouth.

“You’re a regular Disney Princess.”

“Hah hah,” Chris mocks but there's this odd little pleased curl to his lips and he curtseys with the tails of his robe.

A thrill speeds down Tom’s spine.

“The fairest of us all,” Johansson puts in with a little cock of the head and Evans feigns being struck in the heart.

“I resent that, Scarlett.”

“It’s not your party, but you can cry if you want to.”

“Hahaha, ouch.”

Renner guffaws, “Caution, man. She’s red-hot. She burns!”

And so were Chris Hemsworth’s cheeks.

It’s on the drive over to Scarlett Johansson’s private birthday party when Tom thinks about it.

Really thinks about it. He wants to understand, to know for sure.

The usual conversation’s floating back and forth between his cohorts as they file into townhouse. Complaints about how he and Chris being so much taller, wondering about what drinks are in the bar. About sweaty training, and who has to wake up early tomorrow.

It all just filters away into background noise, because Tom’s stumbled upon something today, here—

He bites his lip as Chris walks past, tiara glinting in the low light of the living room.

If Chris were embarrassed or shy before, he is no longer. For he even takes up the role, daintily sitting himself on one of Johansson’s loveseats, hands folded atop his crossed knees. Evans joins him, making some joke or another, laughing eyes twinkling from underneath the lip of a baseball cap. Everyone’s excited to unwind, or coasting on sugar highs.

Tom’s hovering. God bless him, he knows he’s hovering. Staring, unable to tear his eyes away from the way Chris’ lips split into that wide grin, as they purse into that thick pout. The way his eyebrows raise. An errant lock of long hair falling from the tie into his face as he cocks his head and shrugs. Evans is making some hand movements, leaning over, adjusting Chris’ tiara.

Chris bats him on the knee. On the knee.

Tom swallows. Chris hasn’t done that before. Not that Tom can recall. At least, not to him. And he wants very much to experience that too, to know what it’s like, because that soft touch is something he’s addicted to, and now there’s a thread of unwilling jealousy lacing through his gut.

He and Chris have always clicked, a natural type of chemistry that’s lucky to have. It makes sense he’d want to be there for every reaction.

Music roars to life, drowning out unharmonious buzz of multiple conversations, melting it all into a cosy party. Downey’s got Whedon on the speaker phone and there’s some kind of anecdote that has people in stitches. Tom shakes hands with a few people he hasn’t met or colleagues he hasn’t spoken to in a while. Johansson’s party isn’t big per say, but it’s not tiny either.

There are plans of dancing and perhaps some karaoke. Multiple staccato bleats on that party noisemaker trumpet out just behind Tom and then he nearly jumps out of his skin when Renner gets him in the ear with it. He laughs and waves away the paper intrusion and Renner hooks an arm around his shoulder and Tom’s led away to the kitchen to help with refreshments.

Tom has had a few drinks.

Quite a few.

But so has everyone. At least, from what Tom can tell of the people who’ve stuck around.

It’s the wind down, and Tom thinks it’s probably alright now, to circle back to Chris. The other man is leaning heavily against the stairwell banister, having a quiet conversation with Ruffalo. His face smoothed from the laugh lines that have been etched in all night.

It’s obvious that Chris has reached that somber quiet stage, the same one Tom often finds himself in when surrounded by a party. Sometimes it’s just necessary to take a time out, reflect, take a rest from all the loony behaviour. But it’s almost a shame then, that Tom’s not in that mood. He’s still quite loony.

“You look darling tonight,” comes spilling from Tom’s mouth and he immediately feels like an absolute tit.

However, the effect is immediate. Chris turns to him, eyebrows raised and the right side of his mouth hooks up, slow.

“Oh yeah?”

“And there’s my exit cue,” Ruffalo teases and then slaps Chris on the hip, pulling him into a hug. He puts a solid hand on Tom’s elbow as he goes past on the stairs. “See you tomorrow.”

“Take care,” Tom replies patting a hand overtop his.

There’s the twang-ping of Chris’ finger playing with the tab on his beer can. “You look like a dunce with that thing,” He gestures to somewhere above Tom’s head.

Tom immediately takes off his sparkly orange party hat.

“Alright,” Chris appraises him, “That’s better. Now you’re just tall, dark and handsome.”

As Chris chuckles Tom leans against the banister as well. Quickly rubs underneath his nose, an ineffective way to hold back a... an odd reaction. He can feel the heat take hold, the flush across his skin like a wave of pins and needles. His heart is thumping madly against his chest, tickling the side of his throat as blood rushes fast through his ears.

It feels strangely like Chris knows.

All of a sudden, it’s kind of like a game. A competition then, one against the other. Except now Tom thinks he’s got a secret weapon, or at the very least, a shot.

He doesn’t want to lose this chance.

“Fair warning. If you take that off,” Tom’s hand sneaks up to twitch the edge of Chris’ tiara, “You’ll still look like a sweetheart.”

Chris blinks and looks away, twanging the beer can’s tab again. His thumb sticks underneath the little piece of metal and then dips to scrape against the rim of the opening. The aluminum sound reverberates in Tom’s ears as he slides elbows along the gloss of the banister to step closer to Chris.

Chris suddenly snorts. “Cute, Hiddleston.”

They’re pressed arm to arm, and Chris’ arms are pressed tight against his sides, as if he wants to fidget. But it must be difficult to fidget, with arms like that. Tom keeps his eyes low on the bare arm next to his, watches the goosepimples as they rise before Chris sweeps a palm overtop to wipe them away.

“Yeah, that’s a good word for you too.” Tom tries, not looking up. “Cute.”

Chris immediately takes a long sip of his beer, full mouth pushed against the cool can for too long. He bites at the rim, licks his lips.

Tom’s nerves are dancing.

Does he even dare?

Would it ruin everything, if he overplayed? Overindulged?

Tom scratches at his neck, runs a finger around the collarbone, a finger pad tracing the seam at the corner line of his shirt. He’s a bit flustered and uncertain. But only for a moment. He’s always tried not to stamp out fate and good fortune by fear of the unknown.

They’re like a pendulum, in a way, going back and forth. And Chris takes his turn in the silence. Turns to speak low into Tom’s ear.

“What else?”

He says this with a touch of arrogance, sounding suspiciously full of your standard male pride. This is only enhanced by the soft bristle of a thumb swiping across stubbled chin. Upper lip. The hollow clank of a can being turned around in one hand. It’s all a kind of scoff, Tom’s decides. Defiance.

But that’s more than enough incentive. To try again.

Tom’s chin swings to the right, turning his head to face Chris. They’re so close and Chris’ eyes are so soft and blue. Tom can’t help it, can’t help the way his line of sight lowers, to that supple mouth. And he watches Chris pout again, the way his lips push forwards, as if to push Tom’s gaze away. It does the opposite, reels him in.

It’s a shock. A fucking shock, when the tips of their noses bump and Chris doesn’t lean away. He only tilts his head, just a bit, so there would be no more obstruction. A thin thread of blond hair, falling between his eyes. He doesn’t even move when Tom’s hand comes up to lightly touch his back. He takes a deep breath, expanding his chest, back moulding to fit flat and firm against Tom’s palm.

Tom curls his fingers in as he breathes it out.

“Princess.”

A near-violent shudder ripples through Chris’ body at that, at that one word, and Tom is beyond aroused by it.

But Chris clears his throat and then crushes the beer can. He leaves it balanced atop the banister and then nudges a huge elbow into Tom’s chest.

Tom’s hand falls to Chris’ hip, and for a second he’s worried he’ll be pushed away. Expects it, really.

“Come on,” Chris says and his fingers twist into the back of Tom’s shirt, just in the space between neck and shoulder. He tugs. “There’s still three numbers on that dance game you haven’t tried.”

It’s occurred once or twice, where everyone’s been working (or playing) so late that more than one person has decided to just set up camp at whoever’s house they happened to be in and sleep.

Tom’s about ready to surrender to that sentiment.

He’s exhausted. All looned out. Somehow, Chris had set him up on the dance pad and Tom’d gone and played through more than three games. He was buoyed by excitement, its steady thrum vibrating him from the inside. With the cheers and applause the other guests lavished on him, it was difficult to stop.

It’s always been that way— Tom trying to please everyone. It wasn’t until he’d Ricky Martin’d himself to death on the floor that the fatigue kicked in. Tom’s heart fell a bit, after that. Chris was nowhere in sight.

But you can’t go around calling the whole Avengers thing Project Group Hug and not expect a thick blanket to be thrown at your head when the self-doubt and yawns start coming double-time.

“Really, it’s no trouble,” Tom tries not to rub his eyes as he refolds the blanket, ready to hand it back to Johansson – who could pull off a mean impression of sympathy, even when topped off with four and a half glasses of wine. “I’ll call a cab.”

She snorts. “If you need to go, you can, but that?” She points to the blanket, “Is for Hemsworth.”

And it’s true. She leads him down the corridor towards a guest room and there Chris is scrunched up on the bed, head lolled to almost rest against one massive shoulder, the tiny tiara slipped off. He still takes up nearly all the space.

There’s the soft bleat of that noisemaker, sounding almost sad with a half-hearted blow. Renner pops his head into the room, leaning against the doorframe.

“Scarlett, I’m heading out.”

“Wait a minute, I’ve still got your things in the kitchen—” She pushes Tom, her small hand at his ribs. “Take care of him, will you? And geeze, stay if you want, I don’t mind.”

Tom grins embarrassedly, rubbing the back of his head. “No, really, it’s—”

“Hey, the right to tell everyone what to do left you...” Renner checks his watch, “Seventy-three minutes ago.”

“Who talks like that? Seventy-three.” Johansson rolls her eyes as she walks to his side and then past. Her sardonic tone carries in from down the hallway. “And FYI? I have exclusive rights to boss you. It’s in my job description.”

Renner laughs and shakes his head at Tom, giving him a shrug in reply before grabbing the brass doorknob and shutting the door softly behind him.

Well, Tom knows when he’s beat.

And he bloody well knows when he’s hovering, just standing quietly, at the foot of the bed. His knees sink into the side of the mattress, helping to stand him up because he’s just so damn tired. The blanket feels warm in his grasp.

Chris snuffs and rolls his cheek into a pillow, the tiara finally falling away and tumbling off the bed to the floor.

Tom gently opens the blanket and spreads it over Chris in one flap of the thick material. He spares a fond glance at Chris’ sleeping face before carefully picking up the tiara and laying it on the bedside table.

So, he’s kind of got one more shot of lunacy all stored up.

Tom yawns and stuffs himself into the armchair, curling one long arm to brace his head, legs folded up, and falls asleep.

“Tom.”

Tom groans softly, absently realizes he’s shivering in the dark. The room’s pitch-black, not even a trail of lamplight spilling from underneath the door. The whole house is asleep, dead silent. Tom shudders, knees creaking out of their numb locked positions. He doesn’t want to get up to find out his limbs have all dropped off like icicles.

“What the fuck are you doing there?” Chris asks bluntly, voice low and sleep-rough. His hair is mussed and bits are fluttering out of the tie holding it all back. Chris runs a hand over his face, tucking stray strands back into place. He’s the picture of confusion.

“Are you sleeping on that chair?”

“I think I’m freezing more than sleeping. Jesus,” Tom swears, flustered and a bit embarrassed. “Scarlett keeps this house like the arctic.”

Chris lifts the edge of the blanket. “Get in.”

“No, it’s alright.” Tom answers, stiffly slipping off his shoes. His toes feel like a row of rocks. “I think, I’m— I’m gonna go.”

“At,” Chris’ voice breaks and he clears his throat, rolling onto his stomach and turning down the covers, “Four in the morning?”

“Yeah, I’ll be quiet.” Tom bites his lip. “Go back to sleep.”

But Chris just flops his face into the pillow and moans, a loud frustrated sound. It sends an electric current shooting down Tom’s spine and just like that, he’s wide awake, wide-eyed and alert. His hands clutch the armrests.

Chris makes the sound again, face buried, and then he pats the mattress beside him.

There’s a threat in there, somewhere, and Tom relents. He’s across to the bed and gingerly slipping in a moment later.

They can’t even fit.

There’s a long pause before they both break out into chuckles, the volume only held down by the darkness. Tom grabs the blanket hem and pulls it over their heads.

“Better?” Chris says, already sounding half asleep, his breath warm somewhere near Tom’s left ear.

“Yes,” Tom agrees. Unable to calm the strong thuds of his heart, he covers himself up with the familiar, the usual snarking reserved for working hours. “I do so love the dark side.”

The mattress dips and Tom can feel it as Chris rolls onto his side.

“Yeah?” Chris mutters, “I thought it was me you loved.”

Chris knows.

Tom’s heart slams to a powerful, body-shaking stop.

He knows.

And Tom’s uncontrollably excited by the thought, the thoughts, that flood in. Any immediate response is pushed out. He’s injected, crushed deep by the weight of it. His mouth is dry and Tom swallows, takes a short breath that does nothing to cool the sudden burning of his lips, the alarming tingling of nerves on the tip of his tongue.

God, but he wants to taste it. Press his mouth against Chris Hemsworth and just overdose on the sweetness. Never come down from that high again. But he just lays there, in the dark, in the pocket on this too-small bed.

In anticipation.

Chris bends his knee and the hard bone skims up Tom’s thigh. He licks his lips and realizes it’s his turn.

“Sure,” Tom says lightly, because it’s the undeniable truth. And Tom would never be ashamed of the truth, not something that shines so bright. He could never blot it out. “I’m the villain. It’s my prerogative, to covet the Princess.”

Chris stills.

They’re both breathing deeply now, the blanket stifling. But it can’t be broken, this fantasy played out in the dark. Tom’s grip on the hem becomes unbearably tight, hoping to keep them here for as long as possible. As long as Chris lets him.

“Yeah, well,” Chris replies, and his voice is close, so close, right in Tom’s ear. “You’re a King too.”

Jesus, he’s hard.

The thrills of arousal crash through Tom, each thump of his heart sending another wave spreading out to touch the tips of his warmly buzzing toes. He turns his head, ear pressed against the pillow and what feels like a small twist of long hair. His gently frees the lock with a fingertip, blinking slowly to focus on Chris’ face, so close to his.

There’s a lazy smile there, spun across Chris’ lips, and Tom reflects it. It’s natural, really, to drag his fingertip through Chris’ hair, drawing an invisible line from his temple, around the shell of an ear, and down through the smooth strands to run a stuttering stroke along his neck.

Chris sucks in a long stream of air that drags across Tom’s skin and then swallows audibly.

Oh, but Tom feels very villainous just then, for twirling Chris’ hair around his knuckle in one thick knot and pulling before he says, “Don’t those silly heroes ever wonder why she gets caught?”

Tom pulls again and Chris sinks the rest of the way, soft warm lips pressing thick against Tom’s mouth.

Maybe it’s because they’ve always had chemistry. Maybe it’s because they’ve become such good friends through life spent on movie sets. Maybe it’s the fact that they’ve been throwing the ball back and forth for years now, and maybe it’s because there’s no one around.

If Loki and Thor is the bitter half of their bromance, then Chris’ lips against Tom’s is the sweet.

“Chris,” Tom groans against the soft mash of mouths, the slight scratch of stubble across his bottom lip.

“Yeah,” Chris replies but Tom swallows it up, cradling Chris behind the head, fingers laced through hair.

“God.”

Chris laughs breathlessly, “I’ll answer to that too.”

Tom breathes out, pulse slamming in his wrists even as his fingers fold around Chris’ hip. Slowly pushes.

There’s an instant where Chris stiffens and Tom presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth, lips catching on short spiky facial hairs. He speaks deeply into Chris’ sleep-supple skin, smiles.

“Quiet, Princess.”

Chris lets out a soft gasp, and it’s like butter, like sugar, melting together sweet and soft against Tom’s mouth. Tom presses a thumb deep, finds the hip bone and then the blunt digit is sliding down as he pushes again. Chris rolls easily onto his back.

The blanket falls down as Tom leans over.

Cool air rushes at them, prickling and fresh. Tom bites his lip, the skin between his brows pinching in desperate excitement.

Chris is hard too.

It seems so easy then, to fall to his elbows, framing Chris’ head, and press their hips together. It’s not weird at all, even though maybe it should be. Tom doesn’t know about Chris, but he’s never taken it this far. Not with a man. But Chris Hemsworth is not just any man, and that’s what makes this special, unique. A bright spot.

Chris exhales and then breathes in deep, so deep, it’s like he getting ready to take a plunge. His wide hands curl around Tom’s ribs and then they’re flat against each other, Tom lying on top Chris’ broad chest.

Tom feels light headed, as every dragging breath Chris takes pushes him up and then he’s floating back down. Up and down. He rolls into it, arms tunneling underneath the pillow to fold underneath Chris’ neck and then Tom licks his way inside that sweet mouth.

It’s sultry and exhilarating, sliding tongue against tongue. Like drawing the last smudge of frosting off a fork. Oh, it’s more than that, this sweetness. It’s thick, so thick, like the feel of Chris’ thigh curved against him. It’s killing him, and he almost pulls back for air, but Chris’ hands slip around and roughly clutch at his collar, the buttons straining.

Somewhere along the road Tom’s eyes have squeezed shut.

The sight of Chris undoes him; face flushed, lips swelling and parted. Those kind eyes are glazed over and Chris has got a clump of dishevelled hair, sticking up on one side.

“You’re gorgeous, darling,” Tom says on the exhale, tongue pushing against his lower teeth, just shy of hanging out of his mouth in pure raw want.

A hard twitch against the pelvis.

Oh God, that was Chris’ cock.

Chris pulls him down by the shirt collar until they’re so close, eyelashes tangle. Tom rolls his hips.

A desperate, frustrated moan rips from Chris’ slack mouth and Tom fills it, slips his tongue inside to inspire quiet. Chris sucks hard and deep.

It’s a fucking lightning bolt.

The feel of Chris sucking sets off a deep-chest moan and Tom’s grinding, hard and slow at first, like the beginnings of a song before the crescendo. It’s painful, the friction of it all. His trousers are stifling, belt buckle digging in an angry welt to both their stomachs. But he can’t stop. But has to, for just a second.

Just a second. Then they’ll go right back to where they were.

“Mmn,” Chris groans when he pulls away, lips pouted against Tom’s chin.

“We should stop, Princess,” Tom gasps out through a half grin. His voice ragged and wrecked. It’s been so long since he’s felt this way, sounded this way, and God, he doesn’t want a reason to let it stop. It’s torture enough, to pull away and sit up. Chris bucks tight against his thigh.

“Nngggghh! ”

A violent shudder goes through Chris and Tom holds him down through it, both hands pressed firm against his chest. Tom sucks in a shallow breath, biting his lip until it stings. It’s obvious Chris has come.

“The hell,” Chris exclaims after the shocks, voice coming rough, puffed out on deep breathes. His face is pink from exertion, the hue creeping all the way down his neck. He grunts, clutching the bed sheets. “Next time, don’t be a hero and stop.”

“Not my fault,” Tom shoots back, leans all his weight down until Chris’ lungs deflate, hot breath rushing out against his stretched arms, until he’s got Chris pinned. “There’s no one else to save you.”

Tom vaguely wonders if he’s saying too much, if Chris will consider it rude. If this could constitute as being greedy, indulging in a pleasure that should be guilty. But hell, who is he kidding? He doesn’t believe in guilty pleasures.

“Yeah,” Chris groans, eyes falling shut as his hips rock up in slow rolls, hands inching towards Tom’s waistband, fingertips just shy of scraping the exposed sliver of bare skin. “What do you want?”

Tom shakes his head, sweaty palms running up and down Chris’ hard chest, rucking up the t-shirt, catching on the hardened nipples underneath. A breathless, inevitable smile parts his lips. His own cock is pressing thickly into Chris’ thigh.

“You.”

“Okay,” Chris swallows, nodding in quick stuttered movements, word hushed. “Okay.”

Tom gasps and gulps back a thick wad of saliva as hands undo his belt, slipping out the strip of leather in one continuous motion.

“Okay,” Chris says again, more determined, and pulls down the zip.

The pleasure is immense, intoxicating, when Chris takes him in hand, cock hard and slick. His grip is tight and Tom pants, uncontrollably excited as he thrusts into the pressure. Chris lets go for just a second, to lick a thick stripe of saliva onto his palm. It doesn’t take long, he’s so pent up. In a matter of a few gorgeous strokes, Tom is done for, coming with an intense shake that wracks all the way down his spine. His hips keep driving forward until they’re both a quivering mess.

“Mhng...” Tom moans and eases up.

Chris wipes his hand off on his t-shirt, a wet handprint left behind. He pulls the cotton over his head, chucking it to the floor.

It’s stiflingly hot.

They shrug lazily out of rumpled garments. The blanket gets pulled back up. Sleep is so close, but not as close as they are. Tom can’t help it, he strokes a fingertip over Chris’ collarbone, chin, lips. He nudges a thigh against Chris’ half hard cock.

Chris groans softly, dipping across the pillow to place a soft licking kiss to the finger pad.

“You know, remember, on set? I really did want that sprinkle.” Chris mutters, and Tom laughs.

He slaps a hand over his mouth, eyes dancing at his folly. He’s such a loon.

Chris blinks slowly at him, lazy smile creeping up. Somewhere below the covers, his thumb is dipping into Tom’s navel. Tom’s never had this much sugar without an ache before.

“You’re the only one who understands.” Chris says, on the cusp of sleep.

The yawns start coming double-time.

“I... Chris.” Tom presses his lips together, eyebrows turning up. He’s choked by it, the sweetness, the tenderness of that sentiment. The love.

“Thank you.”

When the next birthday on set rolls around, Tom gets Chris to have a bit of cake.

Even lets him eat it too.