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It’s kind of getting to be one of those scenes that get old really fast.
Talk shows and interviews; they’ve all got their ins and outs. Most of the time, things go on in that very vein. Get in, answer questions, smile, laugh, get out. It’s all pretty standard. There’s a formula. There has to be, in this line of work. A concrete margin of who’s hot and who’s not is fundamental to the inner workings of the entertainment industry. You know, as if that makes any sense.
And Chris thought Australia’s system was bad.
Now, people usually say ‘there’s no such thing as bad publicity.’ And for all intents and purposes, that’s a fact. Publicity is publicity is publicity. There’s no good or bad anyway, only maybe about fifty shades of gray. He’s wedged in there somewhere, popularity stemming from the fact that he’s now got a legion of comic book nerds in the palm of his hand and just happens to look good on a Men’s Health cover.
So whatever Hollywood’s got him enduring next is gonna be publicity. Good publicity. That’s what the tinsel town in-crowd likes to say overtop the public, at any rate.
If they love you, they love you, it doesn’t matter why.
But just because it’s what most people say doesn’t necessarily make it true.
“So, I hear you had a brief stint on the Australian version of Dancing with the Stars!”
Chris smiles blandly, feeling his cheeks grow a little warm and tight, as the host’s knowing smirk stretches smoothly across her face. A video screen flicks on. The telltale notes of that little number float through the speakers, the click clack of his dance shoes against the floor. Funny that something he’d spent a week learning, that’s over in about a minute, seems to be caught on repeat.
Yeah, it’s getting really old.
In fact, it’s even getting to be annoying.
It’s not that Chris can’t laugh at himself. He does, all the time. He hardly takes anything personally. He’s just that laid-back kind of guy. His friends and family love him for it, and hell, it’s easy on Chris too, to not let stuff get to him. To shove it all aside with a smile and a shrug.
It’s also kind of a major personality defect.
Because after you continuously let people poke fun at you, it’s damn difficult to finally say ‘stop.’ Anyway, Today’s not that day.
Chris scratches at his temple, grinning as the in-show audience laughs and screams over the gyrating of his hips. Just his luck, really, that they’ve got a jumbo screen.
The crowd laughs some more.
Okay, yeah, at first it was funny. In the ‘Oh my god, I did that, didn’t I? That’s ridiculous, but it was all in good fun’ kind of way. But not anymore.
Alright, it’s not even like he looks bad up there. He isn’t failing horribly. At an objective standpoint, Chris did a pretty good job, considering. It’s not like this is some kind of celebrity sex tape. He’s just dancing. Everyone dances. Good or bad, it’s like publicity. Dancing is dancing.
Except it’s become a spectacle.
What is it about the media, where they manage to find one thing, one remote thing, and keep reporting on that instead of asking, ‘Hey, how about your new role in this movie you’ve trained and prepared for the better part of the year?’ Instead, Chris is caught fielding questions on if he plans to go into a dancing career, star in another awful dance movie— Hey, isn’t your brother engaged to Miley Cyrus? Back up dancer, anyone?
It’s fucking maddening, actually. The way that works.
By the time the show’s over and Chris is on his way out, he’s burning with embarrassment, locked behind a carefree smile.
******
“No way in hell, Hiddleston,” Scarlett Johansson refuses by way of complaint. “I’ve got the hips of an old man.”
Even though they all get to see each other on set now and again, The Avengers isn’t really the type of movie set where you can just have relaxing conversations about what kind of iced Starbucks coffee should be petitioned for crafts services to have in stock. Marvel makes them work, and it’s hard work, really difficult. Catching a prop hammer chucked at you by a guy off-screen when you’re stooped in the most uncomfortable crouch and sweating buckets is damn hard to pull off with any sort of grace.
So the supped up rec room is a lot more convenient a place to unwind. And unwind they do, a lot of the time, with the TV.
“Here, here,” Clark Gregg toasts, tipping his drink.
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Tom says, that overly large grin firmly in place, eyebrows raised in excited amusement. “Think you’ve still got some swing left.”
“And let you dance circles around me? No thanks,” Scarlett’s mouth quirks up at the side. It’s an endearing quality she’s got, that one. Scarlett can drink you under the table and still walk home in four inch heels if she wanted to. And she can damn well turn down Tom Hiddleston’s polite requests for a dance partner to act out the scene playing on MTV.
Really, it must be her secret power.
“Fair enough,” Tom acquiesces, making the most ridiculously charming face for a man who’s been rejected.
Chris snorts into his drink. That’s Tom for you. Gets cast as the villain and he’s got everyone falling all over themselves in love. Not that the sentiment isn’t deserved. It’s deserved alright. Tom’s charisma, his charm— the way he can make you smile and feel like you matter. That optimism, coupled with politeness sweet but not annoying, makes Tom Hiddleston an all around great guy.
In fact, the choice of whether you love or hate him is totally taken out of your hands. It’s a force of nature. There’s only one way to go.
Maybe Tom even has Chris completely at his mercy.
He’s not sure yet. Verdict’s still out. But the answer is hovering suspiciously at ‘guilty.’
Because really, how could a man get turned down by Scarlett and then decide to come sidling up to Chris next?
“Nope,” Chris says before Tom even gets to full wattage on that smile of his.
Tom’s eyes crinkle and he laughs, that full body bowing laugh that makes him crane back.
“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
“Don’t have to, mate,” Chris grins, biting his lip and scratching the side of his nose with his thumb. The water bottle is cool, so cool, against his chin. He rubs the rim back and forth the stubble idly, comforted by the wet bristling after being dehydrated in costume.
“Stop reading my mind,” Tom jokes, looking about half an inch away from elbowing Chris in the ribs. “At least in front of the mortals.”
“But you’d make the perfect dance partner!” Jeremy Renner crows from the couch, plunked directly in front of the flatscreen. And surprise, surprise, he waves the remote control and hits play.
There it goes again— that same scene. Chris’s mouth falls open in dismay as the familiar dance number flashes across the screen. Catcalls from the rest of the gang punctuate each twist of his hips, snorts and shrieks of laughter when he goes into that damned slide. By now everyone’s seen or heard of this thing, but do they always have to queue it up and blindside him with it?
“No secret power is safe in Hollywood,” Clark quips.
Chris rolls his eyes and takes a long sip of water to hide his humiliation, the sudden flush that’s swept up his neck like a bad rash. After the satisfying gulp, his face has rearranged itself properly, to better fend off the jibes and mocking hip thrusts of his fellow cast mates.
He shrugs and smiles, manages to give a friendly shove to Chris Evans on the shoulder when he sashays too close. They have their fun at his expense, and really, he can’t blame them. Doesn’t want to tell them ‘stop,’ because he knows they don’t mean anything by it. It’s Chris’s fault really, that he’s let himself get so worked up. It’s the stress of the movie. The diet and the training. After filming, it probably won’t bother him anymore.
“Chris?” Tom asks once the TV has been returned to its regular scheduled programming.
“Yeah,” Chris clears his throat, rubbing at the side of his mouth with the back of his hand. When he lets his eyes slide to the side, he’s surprised, that for once, Tom’s not smiling.
Tom’s dark brows wrinkle together, “Alright?”
Chris nearly gets annoyed. Nearly.
“Yeah, ‘course,” He replies, crumpling the empty bottle in his hand with one easy crunch. “Just, plotting my revenge. You know.”
“Oh, of course,” Tom bites his bottom lip, smiles. He tilts, bumping shoulders with Chris, and says under his breath with that low tone he gets when he’s being a deliberate little sneak, “You’ll show them.”
“Shut up,” Chris laughs and pushes Tom’s head.
******
They’re in studio, just let out from one of the stuffy too-well lit conference rooms after a never-ending read through.
It’s been a long day, really long, with costume fittings that seemed dubiously unnecessary, especially because they started at crack of dawn. Chris usually didn’t have too much trouble waking up early, but dawn on set is different than at home. There’s always at least a hundred or more people who’ve been up for hours before you, chipper and ready and expecting you to take pins to the thigh like a pro.
Then there was the whole issue of waiting. That alone makes up ninety percent of an actor’s pay cheque. The other ten percent? Faking it.
But Tom’s speaking earnestly now, despite the slightly dizzying feeling of the wind down, the need for quiet, and obviously he can’t stop talking so Chris just says the odd one-liner or question, even as he makes a beeline towards the chairs.
“Argh,” Tom makes a sound of frustration, running hands through his longer black hair which is starting to curl up.
“What now,” Chris raises an eyebrow, rolling his head back into the cushion of his arms to fix an unimpressed look on Tom.
“— I felt like such a tit, you know, because it’s been three weeks and I still can’t get that sequence right...”
Tom launches into an explanation of his latest stunt and Chris sniffs, amusement flitting in to distract from the fatigue.
It’s the little things that make revenge sweet though, and that’s why Chris immediately drapes himself completely across the couch, enjoying how his long legs are propped up on the armrest, especially when Tom attempts to slide in.
“Chris,” Tom pauses long enough to complain, contorting his body the other way and trying to get a space. “Budge up.”
“I don’t think so,” Chris replies, closing his eyes, shifting back and forth, deliberately digging his hips into the cushion to make a show of getting more comfortable. He stretches out even more.
Tom laughs and wises up, settles on balancing atop the couch’s arm with one hand laid carefully on Chris’s ankle.
“— Next time, I could lead,” Jeremy says as he enters the room and Chris looks up to see Scarlett just behind.
“No you can’t,” She replies. She’s shuffling through a thick wad of papers. Revised scripts. Their ‘romantic’ scene’s just been cut. The whole cast files in, some in various parts of their costumes.
“Not many people pay attention to love stuff in action movies anyway,” Evans drums his rolled up script against the chair tops as he heads towards the coffee table. He’s got a bruise the size of a quarter on his temple from a helmet prototype gone wrong. One beat of the makeshift drum stick ruffles Chris’s hair and he swats at Evans. This jostles Tom’s precarious balance enough to feel the feather-light touch on his foot press down.
“Wrong,” Robert Downey follows, tossing a balled up wad of paper that looks suspiciously like a script to land against the back of Mark Ruffalo’s head as they shuffle past the meagre refreshment table.
“The big explosions are what everyone says they’re going for,” Robert smirks, spinning an orange in his hand, “But everyone secretly wants that kiss.”
“It’s true,” Mark agrees, shrugging as he tips back into an armchair. Chris isn’t exactly sure how he’s tired. The extent of Mark’s Hulk costume fittings are based on where to place the dots. As if to make a point, he rolls his foot, hearing the bone creek from standing around for hours on end.
Tom’s thumb curls around to rub the hard knob of his ankle. Chris blinks.
“There are so many romantic characters taking part in this story though,” Tom nods sincerely towards Robert, slipping into that sympathetic tone that Chris can pick up a mile away. He nudges Tom with a heel but the man doesn’t spare him a glance.
Tom continues, thumb rubbing circles onto Chris’s ankle, “A kiss could over-saturate the audience, burn them out. A hint though, that can spark a flame.”
For some reason, the touch of Tom’s fingertips against him tingles. Chris drops legs away and Tom doesn’t even bat an eye as he slides down from the armrest to sit on the cushion. Chris could nearly huff at that. Entitled. He makes sure to dig a knee soundly into Tom’s hip.
Tom doesn’t even seem to care.
“Are you hearing this?” Evans wiggles his eyebrows as he pours a coffee. “Avengers; Romeo and Juliet edition!”
“Okay, okay. Comic book movie. Right.” Tom chuckles good-naturedly, waving hands in apology, “Fair enough.”
“Renner’s still on the bad side,” Chris feels the need to point out, “So it’s a bit like that,” He sniffs, pursing his lips and wriggling to get more comfortable despite being crunched into the side of the couch.
“You calling my side the bad side, Hemsworth?” Tom looks at him then, eyes trained steadily on Chris with that smug little grin he sometimes gets when he’s trying to be serious but really just wants to crack up.
“I call it like I see it.”
Tom tilts his head, and it’s strange, in a removed ‘that’s funny’ kind of way, when Chris feels Tom’s elbow poke his knee. “We can keep dancing back and forth on it, if you want.”
“Hear that sweetheart?” Jeremy announces just before he grabs Scarlett by the hand to swing her out of her seat, “Doesn’t mean we still can’t tango!”
“I will whack you in your head next time. For real. I’m serious!” Scarlett rebuffs, but even she can’t deny the welcomed hilarity as Jeremy twirls her around once, twice, then dips. “Consider it a promise, Renner.”
“This scene is in an awful mess. It calls for music. Maestros, if you please!” Downey calls with a clap, and all of a sudden it’s an impromptu star-crossed assassin dance routine, with Renner pretty much carrying Scarlett back and forth in exaggerated sweeps while Ruffalo and Evans lend in less than stellar whistling of the tune.
Even Tom’s elegant hand is moving up and down on the tempo, slow short snaps acting as the metronome to your standard four beat. Chris took lessons, he knows these things. Tom reaches out and snaps his fingers close to Chris’s face.
Chris snorts in laughter besides himself. “Stop that.”
“Oh, so they do still work,” Tom grins then, smile lifting up the corner of his mouth first before thin lips fall open. At first Chris doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about.
Until, in his utter embarrassment, Chris realizes he’d been tapping his foot.
******
If Chris were the paranoid type, he’d think Tom Hiddleston was up to something.
He’s not— the paranoid type, anyway. But Chris does know for a fact that Tom’s up to something.
Maybe he’s even been at it for a while.
He’s a quiet one, that Tom. He may be the person Chris is closest to on set, but that doesn’t mean Chris pays attention to all of Tom’s schemes. There just aren’t enough hours in the day to wonder what’s going on in that curly head. The guy keeps his cards close to his chest.
Tom’s the kind of guy who tries to do right by everyone and succeeds. He’s so polite, so respectful, so fun-loving and kind of a loon, that you just wanna believe everything that comes out his mouth as good and true. Hell, if one day he announced he was going to give up film and theatre to pursue a life as a Garbo or something, you’d never even bat an eye against it. Tom could take the moon and no one would mind.
So it’s with that in mind, Chris doesn’t feel too bad, that he didn’t see this coming.
Somehow, Tom’s clued in and has noticed. About the dancing video thing. About Chris’s embarrassment.
The only reason Chris has noticed is because Tom’s stopped being subtle about it. He breaks out into random little jigs sometimes, bumping his hip into Chris in hopes the sway will catch. Chris endures it well enough, since Tom looks so genuine about it. And really, as long as Chris doesn’t get caught dancing too, then the only one who’s doing something embarrassing is Tom. He can live with that.
But if watching Tom find excuses to dance around isn’t awful enough—
Tom’s sympathetic.
Of course, it’s not difficult to believe. Tom gets teary-eyed over his character, Loki, who only happens to beat up most of the cast while laughing and look great while doing it. Yeah, Tom’s just a sensitive guy.
And sure, Chris wouldn’t say he doesn’t understand that. It’s like... Okay, so his mum has always made the outlandishly big claim that Chris is the ‘daughter’ amongst her three sons. Some days he shrugs it off as being the prettiest, most days he knows it’s because he’s got that sensitive streak too. It all averages out in the long run though.
But Tom? Tom has got it into his head that Chris needs help. Or something. Chris’s still on the fence here. Because what the hell does Tom want, anyway?
Dancing around like that. Humming ‘Hips Don’t Lie’ and making a weird little feeling jump to life in Chris’s gut.
Yeah, Tom’s up to something.
******
“Sorry,” Tom says, holding out a beading bottle of beer with an apologetic smile as he slides into view. “The queue went for miles.”
“S’alright, mate,” Chris replies, wiping a thumb across the tall neck of the drink. “You apologize too much.”
Tom just snickers at that and leans to adjust his leather jacket.
Chris scans the lounge for seats. It’s busy, even though it’s not too loud. There’s a live band in the corner playing mellow jazz tunes, the comforting pling-pling-pling of piano keys mixing with the odd crooning into a seldom-used microphone. It all glosses over the clinking of glassware.
The pickings are slim.
“We should have just ordered in instead of coming down.”
“Could go back up?” Tom offers but it’s obvious from the way his gaze flits excitedly to different points of the room that he wants to stay.
They’re holed up in a hotel for a few nights, filming on location instead of in studio. The change in scenery is a refreshing change, gets them to let down their hair a little, indulge in room service. There’s a cagey feeling that creeps up on movie-sets, surrounded by hundreds of crew and cameras all day, acting on green screen with the lights a constant buzz in your ears as some guy shines you in the eye with a reflector the size of a hoola hoop.
“Wait, there’s Mark!” Tom spots the perfect distraction, a reason to hang around, “We hardly get to talk to him, come on.”
And suddenly they’re looping their way around the mingling bodies to a booth where Ruffalo’s pressed comfortably against his table guests.
Chris sips his drink idly, the sweat of the bottle slipping across his fingertips. Tom never stops talking, and talk they do, standing up by Ruffalo’s table. Chris supposes he could wander around, seeing as how he’s just leaning there, awkwardly large and unconcerned with some kind of environmental issue that he didn’t really understand in the first place. But all he really wants to do is go back upstairs, maybe play around on his phone, sleep.
He could beg off and drift back towards the elevator, let Tom battle it out with the mingling scene. But he won’t. He’s just not that type of guy.
“This one’s nice,” Tom suddenly directs this to Chris and Chris has a brief moment of ‘the fuck?’ Sort of hard not to, with eyes every single shade of blue and something in between green staring right back at you.
“Ah,” Chris snorts as he gets it, swallows another mouthful of his drink, “Yeah.”
“We should dance,” Mark says. “Liven it up a bit.”
“Nah,” Chris rubs his thumb across the melting paper label on his beer. Digs his nail in. “Too tired. Think I’m gonna go back up.”
“Oh, but they look so... sad, out there.” Tom swings his shoulders back, leaning to peer close with amusement dancing in his eyes. Dancing better than the people dancing, at any rate.
That’s the truth. There’s a little parquet floor by the band, filled with a few stragglers rocking back and forth on their heels. It’s your standard lounge scene. But really, since when does the standard need fixing?
Oh, Tom’s a tricky bastard. Next thing Chris knows, he’s been herded onto the floor and the band’s picked up a new, faster beat.
Tom’s a ball of energy, long legs lifting up high at the knees. Mark and his friends form a cluster of waggling arms— Uncomfortably bouncing on one heel to the music is really all Chris’ll let himself do.
It’s awkward in a way that reminds him of adolescence, of wanting to do more with himself but having too much arm and leg and not knowing how to get around that. It’s almost the same feeling now, except he’s strung up tight, ready to whip out and dance. He can see all the steps, the little twists he wants to let loose and do, and instead he stands in place. He doesn’t want to give anyone a reason to laugh.
If at some point during the final number, he’s given up enough to sway just a bit more in time and Tom’s got an arm around his waist, keeping him tethered to the beat— then, well, that still completely doesn’t count as dancing. And Tom definitely hasn’t won.
******
“I know what you’re up to.” Chris casually says one day, in the dressing rooms where Tom’s a sitting goose because he’s got at least three people, at any given time, pinning and snapping and wrapping him into Loki.
Predictably, Tom’s put out by not being able to crane his head back and laugh, lest that school bus of a helmet break again. Chris settles into his boots, feeling smug.
“I have a great many hidden agendas,” Tom replies easily, the laughter in his voice audible, “Sorry, Chris.”
And Chris figures that’s the end of that.
Until they’ve got fight training later that week.
******
“OK. That’s not—” Fight Instructor John tilts his head just near-sideways, “Yeah, no. That’s not going to fly. Or, Hiddleston won’t, at this rate. Hold on, I’ll go over this with Joss and work it out. Fiver?”
“Make it a dime,” Tom replies, “At least a dime.”
“Hey big spender,” Chris jokes, a dull smile curling his lips at the satisfying burn in his joints.
“Take twenty.”
John’s charitable today.
“I’m sorry,” Tom gasps out after a few minutes of lying flat on his back on the mat. His legs are splayed, the band for the wire work a hard line around his waist as he pants in and out. “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up."
Chris begins the necessary stretches, popping joints and pulling on muscles to keep them loose. Tom doesn’t even move. Chris sighs and pads over the thick blue gym mat to stand by Tom’s head.
“Mr. Fantastic can’t even attempt to stretch so he doesn’t get stiff?” He asks, peering down.
Tom just groans. He rubs a sweaty palm down his nose and mouth to pinch his lips in frustration. Then laughs.
“Yoga and flexibility aside, nothing quite beats getting yanked around like a fish on a hook.”
“Oh, dunno,” Chris can’t help but roll his eyes. He drops down to his knees, “You aren’t that floppy. But you’ll be in cramps for a couple days if you don’t get up.”
He slaps a hand down onto one of Tom’s elbows, jutting at an odd angle that can’t be comfortable by Tom’s head. It’s boney and, unlike the rest of Tom after a session, oddly cool. Chris rubs it with his thumb for a scant moment, tilting his head when Tom’s chin dips to nearly touch his collarbone. There’s a surprisingly strange twist to his mouth.
“Thank you.” Tom says breathlessly, “But keep hovering over me like that and I won’t want to get up at all.”
Chris slaps him on the forehead.
Then helps Tom up with one arm.
The speakers of the gym give off the faint hum of the Top 40, a bubblegum pop song bouncing out along the walls. Tom wrings and rolls his shoulders, stretching and rubbing at the harness across his stomach with obvious pain. Chris has noticed that about him— that it’s always been hard for Tom to hide the effects of discomfort on his face, so Tom usually forces himself to look all the more determined, excited, gung-ho.
Chris snorts, “Think you sweat off that extra twenty pounds of muscle I keep hearing about.”
A black eyebrow is raised.
“Ah. And just how many takes was it, yesterday? To catch the hammer? Hmm,” Tom pretends to think about it, but what’s to pretend really, with that painfully amused number opening his lips, “Twenty-six...?”
Chris swings an arm around Tom’s neck and jabs him in the chest with a finger. “It was fourteen, and shut up.”
Tom grins, his hand immediately coming up to encircle Chris’s waist. They struggle for a bit, twisting and pulling at the other in a fun kind of tussle. It’s brotherly, sort of. How Tom’s curly hair gets him in the eye, how Chris’s tricep almost takes out Tom’s nose. Except not really, because Tom’s warm breath is sweet and not the least bit frustrating the way wrestling with Liam could get. The swelling flush of Tom’s skin is endearing, the worn cotton of a t-shirt slightly too big somewhat comforting.
‘Course, it’s a while until Chris notices that Tom’s got both arms around his waist, looped in a hold that’s just shy of being weird. Chris’s arms hang at his sides without purpose. They’re toe to toe, facing each other, and Tom rocks to the side, canting his hips the opposite way, and oh, Chris knows this move.
“What’re you doing,” Chris asks, looking down his nose. The humour in his question makes it almost sound like he’s jumping into the chorus of a familiar song. It’s a tune they both know.
“All part of the master plan,” Tom says, swinging them to the other side. Chris takes a step back, and Tom follows, arms wrapping tighter. Chris’s hand comes up of its own volition, to grip at Tom’s shoulder. Their knees knock together. He wants to scratch at his eyebrow, it always itches when he’s embarrassed. He moves it up and down instead.
The right side of Tom’s mouth twitches up, the way it always does, when things go his way, “It’s not an evil plan.”
“Huh,” Chris tongues the inside of his lip, pops against the roof of his mouth to make a clucking sound. He looks away, begrudgingly turns the both of them around, arm curling to lie across the broad line of Tom’s shoulders. It’s not like he’s just gonna let Tom lead.
Sometimes it’s the little things that can drain the awkwardness out of life— the annoying Ah-Ah-Ahs of a too-autotuned woman streaming through the sound system. The sticky rip and cling of the exercise mats underfoot as they pick their feet up in light steps. A budding swirl of something like a waltz.
“Somehow I missed the scene where Thor and Loki have a dance off,” Chris comments, chewing on the inside of his cheek, scanning the room, looking anywhere except Tom’s eyes. Even though he’s focussed intently, too intently, on the clutch of Tom’s arms.
“Choreography is choreography,” Tom replies, rocking forwards just a little, until it maybe, almost, feels like he could be attempting a dip.
And Chris holds his breath for that reeling second, thinking he wouldn’t really mind it, if Tom did. It’s an interesting thought— Tom taking the reins, pushing Chris until he finally just stumbles over that hurdle, that roadblock, that embarrassment that’s stopped him from enjoying something he used to find really fun.
Chris pushes back though. He hooks a foot around the back of Tom’s ankle in one quick movement that has Tom falling straight down, shock written all over his narrow flushed face when Chris catches him, half-way to the mat.
“You’re stepping on my toes, mate.” Chris says, and drops him.
Tom lands with a thump.
******
You’d think saying ‘no’ to Tom Hiddleston would actually work.
Well, that’s a load of shit.
Chris huffs, a rough pocket of air gusting into through his curled fingers which tap in a nonsense rhythm against his lips. He digs his stubbly chin into his palm, worrying the edge of his front teeth against a too-short thumbnail.
He stops making the ragged edge of a cuticle worse and just sits back, the weaved fabric of the couch pressing comfortably into his shoulder blades. Can’t help but smile though, at the sight of their intrepid director getting jiggy with it on a plastic dance pad. Yeah, Whedon’s a straight up geek.
“Not a word,” Joss says as he sweats, waving arms and kicking out legs at the end of his number, “This is how I get my work out.”
Those who’ve taken Whedon’s offer up to spend an evening at his home give into applause. Seems he really does do this a lot— Joss has got the high score.
“Okay, okay,” Clark Gregg says after taking a gulp of his drink, “But who’s going to beat that? Who has the best moves?”
And Chris braces for it, the inevitable jibe. It’s time to get Dancing with the Stars.
Until Tom shoots forward, smile a mile wide and ready to dance.
Chris huffs and goes back to chewing on that annoying cuticle. You’d think refusing, warning, and then actually dropping Tom on his back would put him off his little mission. But yeah, no.
“Wow,” Downey flops down beside Chris, phone in hand. “Look at him go.”
Chris acts deliberately ignorant over the fact that Tom keeps looking over even as he dances up a storm.
“Nah,” He sniffs. He can do nonchalant really well, it’s a speciality.
“What?” Downey smirks, raising an eyebrow, then goes blank-faced and casual behind those glasses again, all in less than a second. “Now don’t tell me you’re jealous.”
Chris is pretty sure Downey knows how wrong that statement is. The man smirks again, digging out a more comfortable groove into the couch, forcing Chris to make some more room.
“Afraid he’s stealing your thunder?” Downey pauses for just a second before he snickers at his own joke.
Chris just rolls his eyes. “Nope.”
Tom pretty much creams Gregg in a two-player on the dance pad.
There’s this thing Chris does when he’s pretending to ignore someone and it involves zoning out. He allows the high pitched electronic notes of the game play across his eardrums without resistance, like waves lapping insistently until it becomes accustomed, natural, background noise.
Tom’s got the kind of lanky-limbed body that makes you think of adolescence, of Tom being younger than he really is. And yeah, Tom’s got that vibe, the school boyish joy and a full on grin of a next door neighbour type who— like everyone in show business— has studied Shakespeare (as if that separates actors from everyone else forced through your standard English class). But then Tom will actually go ahead and prove he can recite the lines at the perfect opportunity. He’s that awkward friend who’s so optimistic that it can either make you sick or just weirded out, because where does it all come from?
Chris has privately wondered, more than once, if Tom’s packing in between the legs.
He blinks wildly, realizing he’s been staring as if put in a hypnotic trance, and violently bites at that stubborn cuticle. The pain brings Chris back from the deep reaches of La-La land.
“So, let’s pretend for a second that you weren’t just staring at Hiddleston’s hips for an inappropriately long time.” Downey needles. “You gonna join him?”
Chris swallows and revaluates his major personality defects.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Except he does.
******
Dream-Tom is a wispy thing that slips through his fingers.
Chris never remembers the beginning of his dreams but it never usually bothered him because things seemed to make more sense starting in the middle. Dreams are kind of like making a movie, since rarely does anyone shoot things in sequence. So Chris is used to doing things scatterbrained and letting someone else put it all together for him at the end.
One of Tom’s arms wraps around his back and the sensation explodes down Chris’s spine. Tom lets his hand fan down slowly and the feeling of it is like a million little sand grains in an hourglass trickling down, glowing like stars, spinning atop his every nerve as the hand comes to rest at the dip in his lower back.
Before Chris can take Tom’s shoulders in hand the man dissolves and reappears standing farther away.
It stumps Chris for whatever seconds or minutes or hours the dream takes place, because he knows how Tom feels in real life. He knows that Tom is one long cord of muscle (when they’re training to be Norse gods, anyway), and knows the only reason real-Tom would ever lean away from him would be to laugh.
“Chris?” Tom whispers on a half-breath of that familiar laughter, “Need a partner for this one.”
And there must be music he can’t hear because Chris feels a lot like dancing. Besides, it’s not like anyone’s gonna laugh here. Doesn’t help that since Tom’s suddenly hard to hold onto, Chris makes sure he’s got a good grip.
Tom grins, and that makes Chris grin, at least it feels like he might be, if his lips were in his chest. It seems to split wide open, letting everything about the moment in. Long fingers smooth up Chris’s jaw and on the downstroke through beard Tom tilts his head that extra inch.
Dreams are never in sequence, so it makes perfect sense that Tom has a head full of fair curls instead of that bottle-black Loki mop which always ends up fluffed out by the end of a long sweaty day of filming. Chris flexes his fingers, cradling the back of Tom’s neck.
Shit. He’s stuck in some Australian version of Dreaming of Homoerotic Dancing with Your On-set Brother.
The tip on Tom’s nose trails just past the sensitive skin next to Chris’s ear as he says, “Everyone secretly wants that kiss.”
Chris licks his lips.
He’s never even done the horizontal mambo with a guy— okay, well, except for that one time, during a brief stint of modelling that he still sometimes thinks about with some embarrassing clarity whenever he has to do a scene with his shirt off. And that happens a lot.
Figures. It’d be completely cliché for him to start thinking about shaking the money-maker for Tom now, wouldn’t it?
When Chris wakes up it’s to a rap-rap-rap against the door of his trailer. He takes deep breaths, feeling claustrophobic for a second, realizing he’s half in costume still and it’s probably ten minutes past the time he was needed on set. Chris groans, rubbing a sweaty palm down the bridge of his nose. He’s turning into Jeremy Renner.
“Hair and make-up is going to kill you,” is all his assistant says upon seeing the mess the nap has made of his wig, which is sticking him uncomfortably in the neck. Chris nods quickly even though he disagrees, thinking of that sweetheart of a woman with the two inch nails clawing her way through the tangly mess.
He gulps a mouthful from the water bottle handed to him, squinting against the afternoon sun. He’ll deal.
It’s the wild dancing of his heart that’s gonna kill him.
******
“Alrighty. You’re on a cliff, the sky is stormy and dark— Get some wind in his hair, Len— Too windy!— Thanks,” Whedon surveys the set, eyebrows drawn close and ginger hair looking brown in the neon green screen light.
Chris clears his throat, shaking out limbs while Tom talks to everyone and no one in particular, hands gesticulating in swooping motions most likely imitating the graceful trajectory of Chris’s faceplant. Okay, so he hasn’t quite learned how to fly yet.
“Chris, Tom!” Whedon calls out and the two of them snap to attention.
Whedon’s looking through one eye, the other squinted, his tongue sticking out the side of his mouth and hands raised out in the way one does when they’re lining up something in the distance. He flicks one wrist to the right and Tom takes a step to the side, following the wordless direction.
Whedon flicks the other hand and Chris plods forwards in the stage dirt. Then their intrepid director has got fingers waving inwards in quick movements like he’s wafting in a fragrant meal, making Chris and Tom shuffle back and forth trying to follow the cues.
Tom lets out a short burst of laughter. “Where do you want us?”
“Closer,” Whedon’s hands come together like he’s a mime holding a mid-size box.
Chris fights a roll of the eyes and snags Tom by his Loki straps, pulling him in.
“Perfect,” Whedon whistles. “All that’s missing is the epic wave crashing against the rocks.”
“This does sort of make me feel like a damsel on one of those wonderfully pulpy romance novels,” Tom chuckles, then bites at his upper lip and blinks in a way that could only be described as coquettish, “With a bodice made of leather.”
Chris gets a sudden flare of unbearable heat just under the breastplate of the Thor costume.
“Sure,” Chris lets out a huff of laughter. “Maybe if you tried sneering instead of gazing starry-eyed at me you’d fool someone into thinking you’re tough.”
“Oooh,” Tom squints, those cheekbones of his standing out in hi-def with the breath he lets out. “You first, Thor.”
Chris smiles widely as he punches Tom in the side.
Whedon sure knows how to set a scene.
And maybe Chris would have noticed sooner if they didn’t have hair and make-up prodding and combing through all this. An overachiever on team make-up immediately starts spraying more glistening oil tan on his arm. Despite himself, Chris flexes.
He catches Tom’s lip twitching.
“Don’t give me that look,” Chris tells him.
“I said nothing,” Tom grins and it does something funny to the bottom of his stomach.
He knows Tom’s never tried to fit himself into traditional male roles. Chris can see why, he guesses, if he turns his head sideways and squints. Tom has this humbleness about him that sometimes has him saying silly things he thinks are really witty; like how he can’t fill roles the way Chris does, literally. Point in case, Thor.
Hah hah.
“Just hold still while I shake my brotherly love into you. Too tight?”
Tom shakes his head, those large eyes peering into him, dancing with fondness. “You can do whatever you like.”
Half the time Chris wonders why Tom even likes him, if he’s somehow always standing in Tom’s way. But it’s a lot like how publicity is publicity.
If Tom loves you, he loves you, it doesn’t matter why.
“Good,” Chris makes sure to pump his arm back and forth, giving it a few rolls like he’s getting ready to throw a curveball before he holds Tom tighter and smirks. “’Cause I’ve got some bodice-ripping to do.”
******
“Check it out,” Renner’s waving Johansson’s new smart phone with all the gizmos and looks amazingly pleased with himself, even though he’s not talking to anyone in particular.
“Want one?” Ruffalo asks, holding out an open palm to Chris. He’s changed out of that ridiculous leotard, as they’ve all chucked their sweaty outfits, and Chris happily accepts the piece of gum which he pops into his mouth.
“It’s a day old,” Johansson intones gravely, “So help me if you break it—”
“Hush,” Renner grins and then pretends to toss the device, obviously driving its owner mad judging by her impressive eye roll. “Relax. Look, it’s been Chris-tened.”
Chris sees Evans looks up nervously at that (and it’s always been annoying how many guys named ‘Chris’ there are— He’s determined to start off a trend with Indiana). But at Renner’s dismissive wave, Evans shakes his head, snorting in amusement from the rec room’s couch he’s miraculously scored for himself. It’s busy in here today. They’ve just finished with the street battle scene; the alien army stunt guys and costume crew are milling around too, plowing through all the bottled water. At least that’s one thing crafts services keeps stocked.
And there it goes.
The clip again. Playing out from the mini speakers on the phone, in crystal clear picture, the swing-swing-thrust of his hips.
“Oh God, I never noticed the little look on his face before!”
“You mean the way he sticks his tongue out?” Renner snickers.
People crowd around the tiny touch screen, hanging onto Chris so that he’s the pole in a game of tether as they pass the phone around. And Chris thinks blithely, as the corner of his mouth twitches up and down, that this is going to be the cause for development of a very bad tick.
“Chris, no. Fuck man, you gotta do it, right now.” Someone else wheedles. “You gotta do it, man.”
“I think you’ve seen enough,” Chris wagers but receives a good thump on the back, as though that’s all it takes to get him started. Perform on demand. His chewing gradually slows until the wad of gum is crushed flat between molars, gluing his mouth shut.
“But we’ve never seen it in person!”
“Aww,” Tom’s voice breaks through the group, and suddenly he’s there, cheeks ripening with laughter and a sort of sheepish quality if the nervous scratching at his neck is anything to go by, “That’s not fair. He’s worked all day, don’t—”
“Oh, come on.” Downey has impeccable timing. “We all know you want to see it the most.”
Chris’s tick worsens as the group drop their attention to the screen. The slide. Fucking hell. He chews once, pushing the wad of gum to the side of his cheek with a surly swipe of the tongue.
“Is that so.”
Tom looks caught.
“Definitely not so,” He protests, embarrassment washing over his face in a blush that stands out more because of the unnatural black of his hair.
It’s not that Chris can’t laugh at himself. He does, all the time. But it’s Tom Hiddleston who becomes the last straw. And suddenly, today’s the day.
Chris’s hand shoots out to take Tom by the arm so quickly he’s hardly registered it until the squeak of Tom’s shoes dragging across the floor hits his ears. The trickling end notes to that infamous clip are covered by everyone’s guffaws and applause.
Publicity is publicity, let ‘em watch.
But Tom doesn’t get to join in, not when he’s been sneaking around all this time, trying to get Chris to— It’s really unfair, the way Tom dances on people’s hearts.
“Hey,” Tom exclaims as if asking for help. No one seems obliged. There’s lots of smirking.
Chris doesn’t bother to glance back, doesn’t care about how it looks, how it sounds, when “Come with me, now,” is all Chris mutters before he hauls Tom right out the door.
******
It’s just a scene, another role. This is a side to show business that’s hard to avoid. When you work so closely together, for years, getting inside characters, it becomes more convenient to latch onto those dynamics instead of melting back into your boring normal self.
Sure, it’s not like Tom hasn’t seen Chris’s usual bad habits or vice versa, but it’s different when you’re paid to work on forging relationships. All there needs to be is a spark, just one spark, and you can get good at looking past the annoying bits and great at seeing the best. All of a sudden, making it work together is the only thing on your mind.
So, it’s natural and happens all the time, when you get super close to your co-stars, close in a way that can make spouses suspicious and the tabloids pages quiver. And Chris has tried his best to not get into that habit; to not make a big deal over what other people make into big deals. But there are also situations he just can’t avoid. Some things will always be a long time coming.
So even now, Chris is laid back about it, and doesn’t see a reason to make a fuss. He shoves it all aside with a smile and a shrug.
He really does have a major personality defect.
‘Cause every now and then you end up just having to take your work home.
Well, back to the trailer, at any rate.
******
His boot leaves a dark scuff against the bottom of the door to the trailer as Chris kicks it open and pushes a ruffled Tom Hiddleston inside.
“Chris,” Tom’s voice has gone all frazzled and light, the kind of tone he gets when he’s about to apologize. Chris is always telling him he says sorry too much.
“Stuff it,” He suggests instead and shoves Tom against the counter.
Tom stares after him wide-eyed as Chris paces up and down the aisle of the trailer, squeezing his bottom lip in a pensive grip. If it’s one thing about working for Marvel, they do take care of their own. Everyone for Avengers has got the same size accommodations (excluding Downey Jr., of course, who inexplicably has more stuff than everyone else combined. Also? A cat).
Tom looks kind of put out at Chris’s suggestion, for once not talking, one hand curled around an elbow and leaning against the small sink counter as if it were his idea to stand there. It’s sort of funny, seeing Tom flounder. He’s usually so composed, the difference is maybe just a little bit refreshing.
Chris hits the radio. The sound of a laughing man blares to life, an answer to a joke untold, ricocheting throughout the enclosed space. It’s an echo. Reminds him of all the times his parents put music on to cover up their arguments. That’s not exactly what this scene is.
Chris squints, chewing the gum still wedged in the back of his mouth rigidly. He takes the moment to think. Drags a thumbnail through the scruff in that triangle of tender skin just underneath his jaw and the ending chords of a transition track fade away so that it’s quiet enough to hear the scritch of stubble being scratched.
“Fine.” He slams to a halt, the word punctuated by the loud SLAP! of his palm against the countertop next to Tom’s hip.
Tom jumps.
Chris takes the chewing gum out of his mouth and smashes the little minty wad against the side of sink. He sniffs decisively.
“Alright, we’re doing this.”
“Chris,” Tom implores, anxious enough that he’s getting that expression, the one that’s very hard to say ‘no’ to.
“I’ve upset you. I’m sorry, I never meant—“
Chris swings his head the other way so he doesn’t have to see it. Purses his mouth, scrapes his bottom teeth over upper lip. Licks. Because this is getting annoying and he doesn’t want to seem annoyed, not when the radio’s finally playing an actual song (because what is this, MTV?)
Not when he holds out his hand and says gruffly, under his breath:
“Need a partner for this.”
There’s that blackhole of a moment, the kind where all the background noise gets sucked out and the horizon is shrunk down to the furious thump-thump-badump-thump of your heart. It’s the kind of moment that happens near-instantaneously but stretches out, like a rubber band and the frightening second spent wondering if it’ll snap back on you.
Tom’s palm claps onto his and it doesn’t feel the least bit painful.
Chris snaps him in close lightning fast and Tom gasps, flustered, as Chris laces hands around his hips. When they look each other in the face, Tom’s cheeks are pink, eyebrows dancing up and down like they can’t decide who’s gonna lead.
Chris takes the decision out of Tom’s hands.
He twists into the aisle abruptly and Tom is pressed flush against him on the tail end of the spin. They’re no strangers to being close. Physically close. They don’t call Avengers ‘Project Group Hug’ for nothing. So it’s nothing new, nothing absurd, except for the way Chris sets their hips into a gentle sway.
“This is what you want, right?” Chris murmurs, gripping tight, tighter than he probably should, the edge of Tom’s belt cutting into his palms. “You wanna see my moves.”
Tom sucks in a sharp breath, as if someone’s been hurt, but says nothing.
Chris kind of feels like laughing. Because, really? All of this hurts him much more than Tom. Because he’s the one who... and Tom’s only trying to... Anyway, for some reason the annoyance is coming out now, in front of the only person who hasn’t made Chris feel humiliated. Strange, how that usually works.
Chris bites his bottom lip and lets it go, the wet of it sparking at each heavy breath somehow pouring out of him, with deep rolls of the lungs pushing his chest to press against Tom. Tom’s breathing just as harsh. Beyond that, the radio’s not even playing something you can move to. Doesn’t matter.
The two of them haven’t been doing the kind of dancing done with the feet.
“It’s obvious,” Chris says.
“What is,” Tom replies in a low tone, almost not even a question, as though he doesn’t want to ask but can’t help himself. Since when has Tom Hiddleston ever turned down a chance to keep talking?
The subtle swaying of Chris’s hips turns deeper, momentum building, ripping the breath from Tom like it’s something Chris has trained for that no one’s ever bothered to ask about. Tom scrabbles against him before finally sagging into the rhythmic heat that’s sprung up between them. It’s a fuse, gluing them together. A bond he doesn’t want to break. With a thud, Tom rests his forehead against Chris’s collarbone and Chris can feel the hot gusts of air as Tom rocks back, once. Only once.
Chris takes a deep breath, “I know what you’re doing.”
Tom goes still underneath his fingers.
“No, keep moving,” Chris jerks him and it’s rough, the way he twists Tom the other way to push him against a cabinet (which is supposed to hold clothes but Chris has taken to stuffing full of gym paraphernalia instead. The whole trailer’s bursting with the stuff.)
God, he’s a hypocrite, isn’t he? Saying one thing but then holding Tom prone, staring at him, somehow trying to intimidate a confession out of him, even though it’s Chris who should really confess. That he...
Tom’s always been so good about speaking with eye contact, it makes him feel chastised when Tom can’t do it now. Lashes lowered, normally bright eyes dark, so dark, in the angle of the shade.
Instead, he feels the gentle slide of Tom’s spread hand against his spine, falling to curve into the dip at his back. There’s a hard throbbing lump in his throat that melts as Tom’s fingers curl, and so does something inside Chris, like a piece of paper lit on fire blazing into a small condensed swirl. It’s like Chris has just swallowed a scorching rock that eats away at his gut, making it difficult to breath.
“Oh, Chris,” Tom’s voice is so full, so buoyant. He’s stolen all the air. “You know I’m not laughing at you.”
The tips of Tom’s fingers are comforting and light against the inner curve of Chris’s shoulder, the collar of his t-shirt, thumb against the ticklish side of his throat where the cord of his necklace sits. Each point is like a pinprick and Chris can’t figure out if it hurts or not. Verdict’s still out.
“Just wanted you to have fun with it again,” Tom murmurs quietly into his ear.
“I know.” Chris replies stupidly, because it’s really stupid. Because why would Tom ever make Chris into a joke when he’s too busy laughing through life? Chris folds his arms around Tom’s waist, keeping them pressed together tight. “I didn’t mind.”
Tom automatically hugs back. His pulse is racing. Chris can feel it thumping violently against his chest. The beat’s a counterpoint to the slow careful glides of Tom’s hand along the line of his spine, shoulder blades, back down. Ribs, hipbone, thigh, and up again. Ass.
Chris can’t help it, his arms flex and tense around Tom’s more slender torso, squeeze a gust of air from his lungs. Tom twitches in surprise, mouth accidently brushing against his neck.
Verdict’s in.
Chris knows what he is, has been, and he’s okay with it. He’s okay with being thought of as completely straight, of thinking it himself, just as long as no one takes offense when he strays a little out of the box. He pulls away enough so that he can look into Tom’s face. A stray black lock of hair hugs Tom’s forehead, that one tricky eyebrow drawn up slightly higher than the other.
The thing about Tom Hiddleston is that just looking at him sets off a chain reaction. There’s a rush, an influx of feelings; feelings which previously had no name or place but are suddenly everywhere. Like sunlight pouring into a dark room, bursting behind your eyelids, lips, chest. It’d hurt, if Chris didn’t like feeling warm so much. It’d be fucking terrible, if it weren’t for the fact that Tom hardly knew it was all his fault. Chris likes that the best about him.
Tom’s so easy to love it doesn’t matter if he shouldn’t.
“Am I still stepping on your toes?” Tom asks quietly.
“Maybe,” Chris clears his throat to stop the amused smile that’s pulling at his mouth. Brushes one thumb lightly across Tom’s ribs, “Yeah.”
But then Tom’s looking up at him from beneath hooded eyes. Chris’s lips part as he feels Tom’s hand run up the back of his neck and through his hair, palm flush against scalp. Firm. It unbalances him for just a moment, before he unwinds one arm from Tom to find purchase against the high cabinet knob just above their heads.
Tom leans his cheek against Chris’s bicep. And he looks so young, younger than Chris, earnest and genuine and almost how a brother looks, with the light of sincerity in his eyes. Tom always does that— makes you fall in love with him. It’s a secret power.
And then Tom’s voice goes low, the lowest it can go. The sound makes the bottom of Chris’s stomach drop, when Tom asks:
“Should I stop?”
He should. They should. Should stop looking at each other like that. Stop standing close enough so they’re breathing the same air. Stop dancing around.
That should be answer enough. It’s not enough. So it’s inevitable then, for Chris to lean down, just that tiny inch, and take a rough drag of Tom’s spicy clean scent. It drives him insane.
Insane enough to mutter, “Song’s not over yet,” before Chris presses a kiss to Tom’s mouth. A kiss that falls into being all bottom lip, because Tom’s always got to open his mouth.
You know that stretched out rubber band? Well, it hits home and everything goes crashing before curling in, shrinking into the thump-thump-groan of Tom fisting his hair and kissing back. It’s slick and hot as Chris’s mouth slackens up. Tom sucks at his lip, slipping tongue in. The slide’s just wet enough to make Chris realize he’s been parched for much too long.
Things are duller because the taste of Tom is so sharp, the hard jut of Tom’s nose, the strong male gasp when Chris cups Tom’s neck. They’re an unavoidable knot of limbs, the course hair of his chin sawing across Tom’s sensitive skin as Tom tilts into it all.
Tom is so dominant in his kiss. If he really wants something, he wants it, and it’s hard not to give in. Give into thumbs bearing down on his jaw, the edge of Tom’s teeth sliding down the chap of his lip, long fingers combing through hair in one rough swipe before pulling him by the necklace strap closer still— And here Chris thought he was the only dreamer in town.
Tom’s never afraid, always excited. It’s a fucking turn on.
Chris is the one who has to push Tom flat against the cabinet for a chance to steal a gulp of air, one thigh slipping in between Tom’s legs to peg him in place. He’s panting and so is Tom, until Chris stops short, breath hitching like the end of a laugh.
“Oh.”
Perhaps it’s the singularity of the word which knocks Tom back into his usual polite self.
“Sorry.” Tom swallows, hands flying back from Chris’s chest and hips rising awkwardly, searching for more space. “Damn. I, sorry, I—”
“No, it’s,” Chris shakes his head and draws a line down the middle of Tom’s heaving chest with one finger until it catches in the small dip of a navel hiding behind the thin t-shirt. “Was just right about something, s’all.”
“What—“ Tom’s torn between curiously meeting his gaze or following the path of his hand.
Chris raises an eyebrow then slaps him on the chest. That earns a shocked squeak from Tom before Chris smoothes his palm down the flat of Tom’s stomach until the knuckles slip under the belt.
Tom jerks in understanding.
“Oh.”
“Tom, stay with me, man.” Chris breathes out, and inexplicably finds that his mouth is already half-mashed against the apple of Tom’s throat. He suckles at it, presses light kisses to the underneath of Tom’s jaw where some stubble has started to grow back in.
“Still need a partner for this.”
He yanks Tom into motion. Chris backtracks all the way to the trailer’s end. They twist and turn and wind up hovering by the small fold out bed, its measly blanket half-hanging on the floor.
Chris sits down without preamble, pulling Tom to him with one hard tug at his belt. Chris can’t help the groan that escapes him as he shoves Tom’s t-shirt up and drags his nose through the light path of hair trailing down from Tom’s small navel. Can’t help placing open mouth kisses to the flat hard plain, folding fingers in the waistband of Tom’s pants and pulling down ineffectively. Drawing a line with the edge of his bottom teeth.
Tom moans and clutches at his hair. The sound sends a bolt of lightning through his veins. He unbuckles Tom’s belt with his right hand, stubborn cuticle catching on a thread as he ventures lower.
“I’m,” Tom is thinking of something witty to say, Chris can tell. He jumps the moment Chris grips him through his boxers, runs a wide spread hand up and down and in between thighs—
“Sorry!” Tom is sweating, panting, “Don’t usually— it’s... this is definitely, not what I planned,” He’s gasping, mouth hanging open, words pouring through slack lips, “but I’m not saying—I mean, I rate as a 2 on the Kinsey scale, so never even thought—“
Chris kisses his cock to shut him up.
“Fuhh—” Tom manages to huff before giving up.
The thing about it is Chris has always been a bit sloppy. And during periods of high concentration, he most certainly does stick his tongue out.
Tom’s big, just as predicted, and Chris uses both his hand and cheek to stroke and rub at the impressive length through the thin material. His tongue darts out to lick fatly, his breath is hot each time he groans, because who wouldn’t, when Tom’s pressing back?
Chris leans away enough to rip his thin t-shirt over his head, necklace hitting him in the face and falling back to hang cool against his chest. He inches the fly of Tom’s jeans apart and tugs down the waistband to find the head of his dick and Chris licks at it so quickly his tongue slips off and goes up through the trail of hair leading to Tom’s navel. Tom shudders, catching at Chris’s hair, holding his face in place.
The look Tom gives him makes Chris’s jeans feel painfully tight. His usually thin mouth hangs open, lips slightly swollen with lashes swept low over darkened eyes that are every shade of blue and a little green in between. Tom’s cheeks are flushed red, the tip of his tongue pushing against bottom row of teeth like it does when he’s laughing. He’s not laughing now. He’s debauched.
Chris keeps eye contact as he pulls the intruding fabric away, keeps his mouth light and loose around the slick head of Tom’s cock, watching plaintively until Tom relents, biting his lower lip as he slowly removes his own shirt. That’s all it takes for Chris to start tracing down the vein on the underside of the rapidly hardening flesh, breathing hard overtop the skin and breathing in the scent. He knows Tom thinks there are some roles he just can’t fill. This isn’t one of them.
“Come here,” Chris can’t even recognize his own voice. Drags his cheek along Tom’s cock and pops the head back into his mouth for just one second. Tom automatically follows, gasping, a premature burst of wetness swelling over Chris’s tongue.
He swallows, “Get down here.”
“You’ve a very ineffective way of revenge,” Tom whispers, wrecked as he rubs a palm over his own flushed face, long fingers tunneling through thick hair to smooth it back. Chris wants to make a mess of him.
“Haven’t even started.”
Tom sits himself in Chris’s lap.
Chris takes a deep breath, swelling up to meet him in a kiss that’s gentle this time. He cups at the knees bracketing his hips, sliding hands all the way up to Tom’s shoulder blades, holds him close. He doesn’t want to emasculate Tom. Doesn’t want to force—
Tom shoves Chris flat on his back.
He only has a moment to gulp down some air before Tom’s curved over him, hands spread hard against his chest with all of Tom’s weight bearing down. Their noses bump together, a sliver of light falling across the top of Tom’s head from the window above the bed, lighting up the hidden red in his hair. And then Tom’s kissing him fiercely, like he’s trying to drink all of Chris in one go, and— Okay, yeah. It’s unavoidable. Chris was always gonna let him lead.
The air passes through Chris’s lips raggedly when Tom breaks the kiss to put more force into the soft rolls of his hips. Chris clutches at Tom’s pert butt rocking slowly in his lap, the tiny metal buttons on the backs of his jeans resembling something like Braille under his fingers. He manages to slide one leg out from under Tom and spread it wide against the mattress, bent at the knee, before his hands squeeze.
“Chris, nngh,” Tom groans out and Chris squeezes Tom against himself again, it earns a jerky shudder that has Tom shivering. There’s the icy hot scream of nails dragging down his chest. Chris pants and arches up.
People always think movie stars are happy. Think they’re at their best when filming. In fact, the opposite is true. Things only look glamorous when streamed in hi-def across the silver screen.
It’s work. Long days, bracketed in between short restless nights sometimes spent with make-up still clogging pores. It’s rough patches of skin rubbed raw from training for an action scene that’ll be condensed into two minutes. Learning your lines only to lose your voice. The uneasiness of having to be vulnerable in front of hundreds of crew while hoping to high hell you don’t mess up the shot. It’s taking criticism and changing yourself, on command, frustration. It’s pushing down the feeling of inadequacy when you’re cast as the lead, dressed in a ridiculous cape, and told that Sir Anthony Hopkins is going to play your dad. It’s all of that on top of all the rejection that’s come before.
But he guesses Tom’s in that same boat too.
Everything’s hinged on each other. You can’t just go home and forget about what you’re a part of, because there’s a lingering thought in the back of the mind— that whatever you do here is going to be immortalized, caught forever on tape, talked about for years to come, scrutinized, re-played, redone, redistributed. Don’t even mention the reviews.
The only time stars really shine is in that five seconds on the red carpet. Chris figures actors invented the whole chaotic system to make themselves feel better about the fact that they don’t really know who they are unless pretending to be someone else.
Right now he’s someone else.
Someone better, with Tom.
He grabs at the windowsill to pull himself further back. Tom helps with getting their jeans off. He imagines they’ve been staring at each other forever, all the little moments filtered down into slow smiles across a crowded room. They’ve just met, but it seems like years, and they can do whatever they want, because no one’s gonna ask irritating interview questions about two nobodies who met on the dance floor. That story’s way too old.
And, yeah, Chris is always going to remember this whenever Shakira comes on the radio, but that’s fine. Maybe he even wants it to get caught on repeat.
Tom’s hands are beautifully warm with sweat, sliding from Chris’s neck all the way down to the deeply grooved in lines of his hipbones. Long thumb drawing circles at the base of his cock that would’ve been clockwise if they were down under.
There’s gym stuff everywhere, of course, so it doesn’t take much to find that bottle of whatever-it-is to keep the body-building stretchmarks at bay. It sends his head reeling, like a fishing line cast too tight, when Tom’s slick fingertips slip to stroke pointedly at Chris’s hole, before delving inside. Tom Hiddleston, burdened with glorious purpose. He murmurs something that sounds an awful lot like Shakespeare.
“Chris,” Tom pants, slicking himself, “Please, let me...”
“Fuck,” Chris groans, clutching at the weak bed frame and his cock jumps against his stomach. “Yes. Yes. Do it.”
They do.
And it’s slow, tight, messy but right. It’s Chris’s feet, planted solid on the bed, Tom’s hands pressing down hard at the crease of his hips. It’s Chris’s fingers, curled around Tom’s neck (they’re always around Tom’s neck) and Tom lying flush against him, kissing Chris’s jaw, throat— wetting his lips before sucking at one nipple.
Chris drags sweaty hands through Tom’s hair, destroying it to make up for the fact that Tom’s destroying him with each hard, deep thrust of that smooth thick cock. He can’t take it anymore and Chris bites his own arm as he comes in quick bursts over them both, seeing stars.
He’s completely out of it. Only notices when Tom stills to concentrate on kissing soothingly at the bite mark on Chris’s arm.
“Does it hurt?” Tom asks, out of breath, saliva slipping from a loose bottom lip and perfect teeth grazing the red-hot pulsing skin. As if anything could hurt when Tom looks at you like that.
Chris is already thinking up reasons for all the bruises they don’t have yet.
“Keep going,” He urges, rocking up to meet Tom in boneless waves. Clenches.
Tom moans loudly, coming half inside and half out.
There’s no better reason than the fact that Chris has never been good at saying stop and Tom always finishes what he’s started.
******
Radio stations really don’t play much music anymore.
Sometimes it’s the little things that can drain the awkwardness out of life— the obnoxious host asking callers questions that only have answers loaded up on TMI. The faint buzz of the aircon, of crew driving by the trailers on jeeps outside.
Tom’s telltale ‘hmmm’ as he traces a finger across his lips, just before saying something long-winded. It’s sexier when he’s naked and lying next to you.
Chris rolls his eyes.
“Hey,” Tom sniffs, cheek pressing deeper into the cushion (which happens to be Chris’s arm) as he smiles. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
“Don’t have to, mate,” Chris idly tugs at his necklace.
“I...” Here it comes. “Never had any hidden agendas.”
Chris wants to say ‘I know. You’re horrible at lying,’ but it’s not important.
“I couldn’t,” Tom screws up his face, nose pointed to the ceiling, shaking his head before Chris puts a heavy palm against his cheek and turns Tom to look at him as he continues, “It’s impossible to plan for something so perfect.”
Chris raises his eyebrows.
“Well, maybe not perfect.” Tom’s grin widens, “Perfection does not require repetition.”
Chris stares at him, and perhaps it’s too intense, because Tom’s smile falters. He rolls onto his side, hand coming up to curl into the rumpled bedding. He looks so honest. Chris loves him.
Tom asks, even though it’s obvious he doesn’t want to:
“What happens now?”
Chris smoothes a thumb down that sharp cheekbone. Taps Tom’s chin. Lets out a pensive sigh, as if this is a problem, and now they’ve got to think their way around it. Nah. Sometimes, it’s just a scene you gotta dance through.
“Guess we’ll just have to go dancing.”