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Bromance: A Hiddlesworth Story	By : flagfish Category: Casts RPF > Thor (movies) > Thor (movies) Views: 4617 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I do not know Chris Hemsworth or Tom Hiddleston. This story is a work of fiction, and I make no money or profit from it.

Chapter List
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If Tom had been dating a woman, he'd have no trouble with this; he’d have a tried and true, time-tested formula, he’d got seduction down to an art form. Fact of the matter was, however, it didn’t really have to do with the fact Chris was a guy, but that they knew each other inside and out like true brothers, and there was no room to charm or seduce or intrigue. If he’d tried to pull the charm act on Chris, it would be utterly laughable, the way your brother would laugh at you for trying to come off mysterious and alluring.
As it were, he found himself for once without any sort of technique, and the very implication he’d need one was ridiculous: why would he need to charm him? They weren’t romantically involved, they were best mates and nothing beyond that.
They loved each other like brothers.
They were bloody straight, and they fancied women, and this whole thing had gone too fucking far.
So they experimented a little, was it really that big a deal…? It wasn’t that unusual, was it? Didn’t you hear about that all the time, two blokes having a wank together, comparing sizes or what have you, didn’t brothers do that…?
Besides, you didn’t need to be gay to understand the universally-accepted fact that Chris Hemsworth was built like a god, there was no shame in admitting he was sexy, trying to deny that would reflect some sort of insecurity, he wasn’t going to take it back.
He was going to do some blatantly straight thing, like openly flirt with women on the set, post something charming on Twitter, maybe talk about his past girlfriends in an interview— vaguely, of course, as not to make a public circus of someone else’s private life.
It wasn’t just insecurity, though; it was the way everyone saw you, and when it came to Tom and Chris, a lot of people were watching. People didn’t take something like this lightly; if you were a bloke, they classed you as either straight or gay, and if you were gay, then that became what you were.
You couldn’t just be a bloke who always fancied women, who loved someone who happened to be another bloke, without wanting to be called gay or straight and having that affect his identity. It wasn’t even about the specifics of what you did in bed with another bloke, because he’d be far less reluctant to let a woman do a lot of that stuff to him, and then it would be kinky and fun experimentation that was okay because it didn’t change what he were.
Could he honestly say with complete certainty he wasn’t at all attracted to him?
Could he honestly say that, if instead of classing you as gay-or-straight, something like this became an intriguing fetish that women liked, he’d be quite as hesitant about it? I’ve not stopped being straight, that was just something I felt like doing.
But even if that made sense, it just wasn’t how the viewing public would see it, and the viewing public was what determined the success of his career.
And it affected how he perceived the whole thing, as well.
Even if he’d decided, fuck that, no one other than Chris and Elsa need to know, he’d still not really feel at peace about it.
Elsa made him feel better, actually. She didn’t see it as gay, clearly, she was banging Chris, after all— and Tom was relatively certain she’d gladly bang him, too, if that were cool with everyone. He and Chris liked telling her. They liked being with each other for her, because then it felt hot. Then it didn’t feel quite so weird to do intimate stuff that people who liked each other did in bed, because it was okay that they were people who liked each other. More than okay: it was hot, to a woman, and guys who liked women liked making them hot.
He became aware he’d embarrassingly spent far too much mental energy on the matter, you’d think at his age he were too old to worry about that sort of thing, but the fact remained it mattered enough it affected social attitudes as a whole.
“I don’t know,” he finally said to Chris, one hand resting over his mouth while regarding him across the kitchen table, and Chris raised his eyes from the script he was reading. “Don’t know what?”
Tom remained quiet for some moments, like he were thinking it over; “Do you suppose I ought to— romance you in some way?”
Chris raised an eyebrow. “What?”
“You know,” Tom continued, now leaning back in his seat, “You don’t usually just— take someone straight to bed…”
Chris appeared even more suspicious; he snickered despite himself, certain for the most part there was humor in this. “Wine and dine me, you mean,” he said with knowing wisdom, “Definitely, yes, since you’ll be doing the, you know, the dicking…”
Tom badly stifled a laugh. “Sorry,” he said, trying uselessly to compose himself and finally laughing outright. “That is how it works, isn’t it,” he said, “like an access key…”
Chris finally put down his script, unable to resist laughing along.
“You are fucking serious,” he said, grinning as he leaned back and crossed his arms, “After all the stuff we’ve— everything we’ve already done— now you’re trying to figure out if you should romance me…”
“If I ought to— well I ought to do it proper-like, right, maybe we should have done it proper from the get-go…”
Somewhere mid-laughter, Chris realized he was curiously flattered by this, and he wasn’t certain why.
Maybe he liked the suggestion you’re meant to do it proper regardless of who was doing the dicking—
That was, that being dicked wasn’t something so horrific you’d expect some form of compensation for the trauma of enduring it, like being wined and dined. Like that maybe none of it was so horrific that it couldn’t stand legitimate acknowledgement as something beyond accidental experimentation.
“Quit looking at me like that,” he said, and Tom laughed, aware it was bugging him; he looked at him deliberately more intensely.
Chris laughed, he leaned back in his chair and rubbed hard at his eyes. “If you start romancing me, I swear, I will kill you. You’re looking at me like…”
“Like you’re a fucking girl.”
“Yes…!”
“All right,” Tom clapped both hands conclusively on his thighs, “got a dress you could put on just real quick?”
“Suuure, I’ll just, you know, I’ll just go and slip one on…”
“Lovely, you’ve got the figure for it.”
“Always so hard to choose which one.”
“They’re all so pretty.”
“Should I do a few bench presses with it on?”
“You know, that is exactly the thing you should do.”
Chris rose to his feet and pointed one finger at Tom. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said, shaking his finger, and Tom raised his eyebrows in pretense of virginal purity, he shrugged and then asked, “Oh, and what’s that?”
Chris was partway out of the room, “You’re thinking this is this challenge now. You’re wondering how you’re going to pull this off in a way that would work.”
Tom couldn’t help laughing, because he was so right. “I was not at all thinking that. Where are you getting that? I wasn’t thinking that.” He was aware it was clear to them both that he was.
Chris was smiling fully, he spoke in a ridiculously shrill voice and held both hands up, twirling his fingers. “Ooh, I’m gonna find out what his deal is and what he’d end up liking, and it would be, like, this surprise, and he’d have to admit he likes it, blah blah and…whatever… other bollocks…”
Tom already was getting quite into this. He grinned toothily and pointed one finger back, “Don’t forget how I’m about to call Elsa, right, and ask her how to romance you proper, cause I was gonna do that, too.”
“Oh, pff,” Chris rolled his eyes, “maybe if you want to be on the phone for, like, six hours… she probably wrote an entire instruction manual, just in case the occasion came up…”
“Sounds useful, I ought to ring her up. But first I’m going running.”
They played rugby that day with a bunch of guys from the set, they forgot all about what they were planning to do. The rest of the week went by and neither of them tried anything, like things had gone back to normal. Like it was surreal they actually did stuff, and even more surreal that they’d actually considered giving it legitimate importance. They felt better for it, like they’d managed to overcome a terrible habit like smoking or alcoholism, or crack cocaine.
But that sense of weirdness was inevitable; you were overwhelmed with what you knew the world would think, and even if you fought to believe none of that mattered, deep down you felt like you were sinning somehow.
“I can’t do it, Elsa, I’m straight.”
It’s what guys said when they wanted to feel masculine. It was an excellent thing to say, because it sounded like rational logic and was something with which no one could argue— and, moreover, it sounded natural.
Except that it had little to do with natural things and much more with social perception.
“…oh,” Elsa said, because it wasn’t something you could argue against. “But it was so hot.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
That’s something else guys said when they wanted to feel masculine: hot isn’t something up to opinion, but rather an absolute fact— and hot wasn’t a term you were allowed to apply to guys, because that would mean they were vulnerable to scrutiny at their most naked and basic physical form, and that’s degrading to anyone: it was a term strictly reserved for evaluation of females.
“You’re trying to tell me what I’m supposed to find hot?” She asked, and Chris could tell by the tone of her voice he’d made a mistake; “No, no, of course not,” he said, but she could tell he was down; maybe if more people started listening to what a lot of women actually found hot, it would become socially legitimate, in maybe a hundred years.
“I was hoping I’d actually get to watch you guys, next time I saw you together.”
Despite himself, Chris couldn’t help smiling at that. “Yeah, I’ll bet you’d like to see that.” Despite everything, it was flattering somehow.
The whole thing had got her down— because it was a reminder not just that her fantasy wasn’t real, but that the social stigma against that sort of fantasy was overwhelming, even if it was a pretty common fantasy. And even if Chris didn’t tell her what she was supposed to find hot, he didn’t need to, because what she wasn’t supposed to find hot was common knowledge; he was merely reminding her of that.
It was something you and countless other women always felt the need to apologize for and explain, because it was common knowledge it wasn’t supposed to be hot. Even if countless women wrote about it and talked about it and dreamt about it, because the kind of porn that existed in video form just didn’t cater to what women really wanted to see— and then you were immature and juvenile and nerdy because the only way you could get the kind of porn you liked was in writing. No one made porn geared specifically for women, where two guys were going at it, because no one would watch that, because everyone knew that wasn’t what women wanted to see. Except it was what women fantasized about and wrote about because they couldn’t get it anywhere else.
A guy saying I watch porn sounded natural and normal, but a woman saying I read fics made her sound like an introverted freak; it was something you whispered about to other women, only if you knew for a fact they could relate.
Then you reached a point in life when you told yourself you outgrew it, because the guilt of feeling you liked something immature and nerdy for so many years had become too much— it was such a relief to stop fighting, and to agree to like what everyone knew you were supposed to like. Liking sex was only okay when the physical focus was on women, and when you liked men for higher qualities like intellect or competence or success.
Or you said you didn’t like sex. Or you said you liked sex where women, not men, were being objectified, because no one was supposed to feel bad for liking that. Because the very social concept of what it meant to be female was grounded in the notion of being something to look at, so you felt good about yourself when you were told that looking at you was pleasant. You felt you became an adult when, like other women, you could be a proper sex object with the prototypical female form that was sex manifested— and then you shaved off all your pubic hair so you could look preadolescent. You said it was your choice and it made you empowered, but really it was because if you went against all that stuff, eventually you’d always feel somewhere inside you were sinning somehow. And if you went along with all that stuff, you felt the immaterial support and encouragement that existed fundamentally all around. You live in a community, after all, and even the strongest among us aren’t impervious to that.
“I love you,” Chris said to Elsa, “so much.”
He may have been taller than both she and Tom were, and he may have been really built, but he was really just a little boy; he spoke to Tom plainly that day, while on the set, when they had a moment alone.
“You’ve not tried anything at all,” he said, “the entire week.”
Tom glanced up, it made him chuckle. “After all those warnings,” he said, “not to romance you and that!”
But it was just an excuse; they’d both made clear to each other without any words they didn’t want to.
“Yeah, well, maybe I was wrong.”
He spoke with quiet severity that made Tom’s smile fade; there was something at play here to which he wasn’t privy. It occurred to him he may have rejected Chris without ever meaning to.
“Come off it, I’m sorry,” Tom said, getting one arm round his back, he leaned over and kissed his cheek, too tired mentally to evaluate if that was a gesture meant for a girl or just for someone you liked, and it had the unintended effect of breaking tension that had gnawed at them that past week.
“Thanks,” Chris said, he tried to smile; funny how having told Elsa it wasn’t hot had made him feel like he’d betrayed her. Like here she’d let down her guard and told him her most intimate fantasy, and without meaning to he said she was wrong for being turned on.
“Let’s try again tonight,” he said, “I don’t mind if you’re—” he looked around to be sure no one was listening in, then whispered very softly, “—if you’re—on top—”
Tom turned to him very slowly; he gazed suspiciously, brow furrowed, aware there was something he wasn’t being told.
“Did something happen?” he asked, and Chris wanted to answer honestly, but he wasn’t certain how;
“No, nothing happened, why?”
He could tell by the look Tom was giving him he wasn’t buying it.
“Nothing happened,” Chris repeated,“maybe I just want to.”
Tom gazed back, dissatisfied; somehow, the way Chris had asked was unexpectedly cheapening. “We need to get back to work,” Tom said, “we’ll talk about this later.”
Chris regarded him like a hurt puppy, suddenly aware he was being rejected, and that was never supposed to be part of the deal between him and Tom; he was daft to ever bring it up.
It was even worse that they spent the rest of the day interacting professionally, and in the evening they each made excuses to go out separately and do something else. Chris wasn’t certain if he was rejected by his best mate, or if for the first time he was experiencing what it was like to be rejected romantically by a guy; either way, he felt lousy. Suddenly, worrying about whether all that stuff was gay seemed trivial, he felt like he was in trouble with both Elsa and Tom.
He returned that evening to find their apartment shrouded in darkness, meaning Tom still hadn’t returned; he padded blindly for the light switch, then proceeded to the kitchen to put groceries away. “God, it’s cold in here,” he murmured to himself, like hearing his own voice was consoling; he proceeded toward the thermostat to turn the heating on.
Left his jacket on, placed his keys absently on the counter, then his wallet, then his phone; he turned the light on in the living room, then the TV, flipped to CNN where the news were in English. Thought of calling Tom to ask when he was coming home, thought of several excuses to give for calling, like I want to know if you want me to leave dinner out for you, or should I leave hot water for you in the shower?
Nah, Tom showered in the mornings anyway, after running. He had no excuse to call him, who cared when he came home…?
But it felt worse when it was even later at night and he still hadn’t returned, and hadn’t called or anything, and Chris got angry with himself for caring. Who cares what he does? It’s his business, he’s an adult. The more he thought of it, the more utterly stupid he felt for asking Tom to do it that day. He laughed pitifully at himself in his mind for getting so worked up over something trivial, like they were a couple of teenagers playing stupid teenage games; maybe some things didn’t change when you were an adult.
It occurred to him Tom was avoiding him, maybe because he didn’t know what to think.
He wanted to tell him, forget it, I’m over it. It’s not that big a deal— but if Tom was avoiding him, he didn’t want to be the one to text him first.
Very late into the night, he heard the unmistakable sound of the front door coming unlocked; his eyes went big in the dark, he went completely still to make it seem like he was sleeping. There was the jingle of keys, rustling of a coat, the electronic chime of Tom’s phone going in the charger; soon after that, the fridge door coming open, then closed, then the cabinet; he listened for some time, oddly comforted that he had come home.
He was prepared to apologize for things he never did, he just wanted things to go back to normal. Maybe he could say it was no good on the set if there was this weirdness between them, but he suspected Tom would deny there was weirdness at all.
He swore to himself he’d pretend to be asleep and say nothing, but after listening to Tom move through the room while quietly gathering his pajamas, he couldn’t help himself; he gave himself away by quietly murmuring that he was sorry.
He knew soon as he spoke that he’d made a mistake, because that meant that he cared, and now Tom was going to say there was nothing to be sorry for, but he was going to keep acting like there was.
Tom stilled; he turned around with his clothes bundled in his hands, and picked at them absently. “Sorry for what?” he asked, and Chris didn’t have an answer prepared. He stilled for several moments, his voice came hoarse with sleep when he spoke,
“For, you know, what I asked… it was daft, forget I said anything.”
Tom’s expression was unreadable; in the dark, it was hard to tell, either way.
“Right, no worries,” he said, and somehow, that hurt even more— like it gave legitimacy to what Chris had suspected, that everything they’d done was really a mistake. He thought he really hated him at that moment.
When did this all become so emotionally charged? When did it stop being just curious experimentation, and became hurtful, like—
—like when you really had feelings for someone…?
Times like this, it sucked they were living together. The air was suffocating between them, and they tried to distance themselves in the small confines of their apartment, they avoided each other deliberately whenever they could, but they worked together, too.
Three days passed before Chris brought direct attention to it again.
“So, is that it, then?” he asked, audibly annoyed. He had his back turned to Tom, working on his laptop.
Tom was most of the way to asking is what it, but Chris didn’t let him finish. “Come off it,” he deadpanned, “stop acting like you don’t know.”
He could swear, Tom still had Loki in him when he replied, “What’s this, we having our first lovers’ spat?”
There was something tremendously satisfying in hearing it, because here Tom had acknowledged the matter for the first time instead of avoiding him.
“Yeah,” Chris said, “yeah, we are. Or something. I don’t know, this has made me feel shite all week.”
Tom sighed; he rubbed at his brow, aware he now had to address the matter directly.
“I just didn’t fancy it. All right? I’m sorry,” he said.
It was like every new thing he said was more hurtful than the last.
“You didn’t fancy it,” Chris repeated, and Tom held his arms helplessly to his sides and said, “Yeah! I just didn’t. I don’t know why.”
“You could’ve just said so,” Chris said, even though he would have vastly disliked that; he just wanted to be able to accuse him of something. The urge to say What makes you think I fancied it, myself? Was irresistible, but it was too late to say that; he’d already made it quite clear that he did.
He was aware the correct course of action at that point was to pretend he wasn’t bothered, but he was exhausted from pretending not to care that past week and putting up with the distance that had formed between them.
“Is it because I’m a guy?” he asked, and Tom’s expression changed into something not quite discernible; it occurred to Chris unpleasantly it seemed dangerously like compassion. He’d given up on trying to appear like he wasn’t a little boy.
Tom walked over to the kitchen table and sat down at his side. “Look, I really am sorry,” he said, and Chris raised one hand to stop him, because he didn’t want to hear it gently and empathetically explained to him.
“It’s not because you’re a guy,” Tom said, “or because I’m a guy, or… or anything like that.”
Chris’ first impulse was to jump in and remind him he didn’t fancy guys either, and it’s not like he normally did that— but after what Elsa had said, he felt awful bringing something like that up. “Then what?” he asked, nakedly putting his feelings in the open, and feeling betrayed that he had to worry about something like that, because weren’t they best mates in the first place…?
Tom shrugged, he appeared genuinely at a loss. “I don’t know,” he said honestly, “I just…” he shook his head, “I just, for some reason, I just don’t want to.”
“Is it because of something I did?” Chris asked, “Is it because— you know— that last time, you wanted to keep going, and I—”
Tom shook his head, now feeling awfully guilty; he was aware he’d hurt Chris without ever meaning to. “No, no, nothing like that…”
“Because that time, it just, I couldn’t, because clearly it was—you really looked like it hurt, and it was—”
“No, that was fine— it’s not— come here.”
He leaned toward Chris and got his arms around him, like he were consoling a child; it occurred to him he’d really missed this.
“I’m an utter tit, I’m sorry,” he said, feeling like a monster: here in the midst of everything, he’d decided with no prior warning that he just didn’t want to anymore— but you can’t change how you feel.
Chris wanted badly to push him away, to tell him he didn’t need to be embraced and that he didn’t need his pity; but it felt too good to pass up. For all his strength, he’d always been inhumanly gentle, he hugged Tom carefully like he didn’t want to crush him.
After that, Tom remained sat across from him, he took his hands in his and held them in his lap. He played absently with his fingertips, feeling along the smooth digits and the tips of his nails; “Do you want to, right now?” he asked, and Chris didn’t look up from their joined hands.
“Mate, we don’t have to.”
“Do you want to, though?”
“I don’t know. I thought you didn’t want…”
“Maybe I kinda do.”
“Are you just saying that because—”
“No, I really want to.”
Silence.
“Come on,” Tom said, motioning with his head for Chris to come along, “I’ll shag you proper.”
He finally got Chris to smile; “Yeah, right,” he said, “like you have the slightest idea what you’re doing…”
“Maybe I do.”
“Sure you do.”
“Maybe I read up on it.”
Chris laughed incredulously, because it was so like Tom— but he felt inwardly surprised regardless, because he thought Tom had lost interest entirely.
“You did?!”
“Maybe I did.”
“Well, theory is one thing, but practice…”
“Yeah, it’s probably gonna be horrid.”
(On to Chapter 14)
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- 14
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Bromance: A Hiddlesworth Story