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Bromance: A Hiddlesworth Story	By : flagfish Category: Casts RPF > Thor (movies) > Thor (movies) Views: 4616 -:- 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
- 13
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- 15
Chris and Tom were sat across from one another on Chris’ bed, Tom was rubbing at his feet which were cold under his socks, even with the heater on. He could’ve said it was all a misunderstanding or I've always secretly wanted you or let me make it up to you by giving you a better night than anyone had— but none of that stuff would be true, and you couldn't lie so extravagantly to someone who knew you that well.
But friendships weren't perfect, and liking someone didn't translate into good sex. Liking someone also didn't translate into being selfless, or sensitive, or kind.
“You’re doing this for your wife,” Tom said plainly, and Chris regarded him from under the fall of his hair. He was going to protect her to the point of believing what she believed, because it was a beautiful thing, it was all very profound and intellectual, and empowering, and it was all about beauty and love.
Your dumb parents wouldn't understand.
It’s fun to be empowered when you believed the rebellious things that were fashionable to believe, and then never to shut up about them.
“I am not,” Chris said, “she’s right.” He regarded him accusingly, like he were challenging him, reveling in what to him was defiance. Not reveling, really, but feeling like he really ought not speak this way, except that there he was doing it, and it gave him this impression he was reveling— then he decided, yeah, that’s what I’m doing, what do you think of that? Because that’s what it felt like.
And that made him go on like the rebel it felt like he was, he said stuff like men are beautiful and it is hot and I want you and sexual orientation is a stupid label and love sees no gender and this is my choice and so I’m empowered and I love people regardless of what they are and all manner of other sugary things that make you feel good to say because they reduce really complicated issues into simple matters of tolerance and love.
No, he didn't say any of that, it’s not fashionable for guys to talk this way— though that would be nice, for once watching them dig their own graves without any help from the opposite sex.
What actually happened was that he sat across from Tom, not really certain about what to say. Then his phone rang, and he answered it, picking at stray threads in the blanket, trying to get Tom back by acting like he wasn't important.
Tom felt the blow of it, too, the passive-aggressive maneuver against which Chris was immune because if Tom had said anything, Chris would act like he had no idea where it was coming from, and he’d even believe that.
There was unspoken animosity between them that was awfully tempting to act on, but that would be childish, and they were convinced they were fully grown men.
“If you’re just gonna talk on the phone…” Tom said once Chris had hung up, and here came the passive-aggressive bit, Chris said, “What, I can’t answer my phone now?”
Tom rolled his eyes. “Just forget it,” he muttered venomously, but Chris just went on, “So now if I answer my phone it’s like this personal offense to you?”
“Forget it! Never mind…!”
If Elsa had been there, she’d say something like Can’t you lot settle this by wrestling naked in a tub of jelly, she always had a positive spin on things. They just didn't behave well without her instructions.
But she wasn't there, Chris muttered for Tom to go fuck himself and proceeded into the living room, because it was too late to go out. He felt desperately he just needed time alone, but there they were, stuck in the same small space.
Tom took it as personal offense, as if he really wanted to be stuck here with Chris, he huffed and then walked back to his own bed, got back up, strode angrily into the living room.
“Yeah, you know what,” he said, walking deliberately toward Chris, “just don’t talk to me again.”
“Right, whatever, don’t talk to you,” Chris muttered, back turned and facing his laptop.
Chris hadn't really done anything wrong. There was the phone bit, but that wouldn't be so irritating if Tom hadn't somehow got the subconscious feeling he had the upper hand in the first place. Tom knew somewhere in the back of his mind that Chris was justified in being upset, but without knowing it he latched onto any rational reason he had to reject him, because he just didn't feel like getting close to him of late, who knew why.
Maybe he was overwhelmed after everything they’d done. Maybe being stuck together both at home and at work became suffocating, even when they were very good friends.
And even while both he and Chris knew deep down that Chris was in the right, the whole thing had Chris feeling inexplicably guilty inside, like he’d messed up somehow. It made him very annoyed, because he knew it was utter rubbish for him to feel that way, but you don’t get to decide how to feel.
“You are so full of shit,” he huffed bitterly, “you read up on it and you really want to, I don’t need your charity.”
“Yep, that’s me, full of shit,” Tom replied, “you've got me figured out.”
“Whatever, I don’t even care anymore, I’m done dealing with your crap.”
“Dealing with my crap? I’m not the one— like— have you tidied up around here once since we've moved in? Once!”
Chris spun around in his chair like he was ready to kick Tom’s ass.
“Did you just seriously accuse me of not tidying up?!” he asked, eyes narrowing dangerously, “You, who— have you ever thrown out the rubbish? Ever…?”
“Yes, I've—”
“Don’t even try bullshitting me about that, because you haven’t, it’s always me taking it out, when it’s totally full, because I always wait to see if you’d do it, but it’s like the entire concept is foreign to you, you, like, pile rubbish on top of other rubbish—”
It was completely true, but Tom was too pissed off at the moment to admit that even to himself.
“Fine…!” he sputtered, “whatever, I don’t have to listen to this.”
“Whatever, you know I’m right.”
“Can you just shut up?”
“Oh, because you told me to?”
“Shut up already!”
He actually got his hands on both ears. Then the neighbor from next door banged on the wall and shouted something in Icelandic.
It was very embarrassing. They both went quiet after that.
“All right,” Tom finally said, he sighed heavily and sat at the edge of the sofa, willing himself to calm down. “This isn't good for filming.”
It may have been an excuse, but it was true, either way.
Chris was stood and pacing slowly into the kitchen, then back out, running one hand through his hair; he remained by the counter and traced the angular edge of a drawer. They both were still mostly angry inside, but trying to calm down.
Later that night, Elsa gave Tom a hard time, and it was both vastly annoying and tremendously reassuring.
“What are you doing?” She asked bluntly, “Go apologize.”
“Excuse me?” Tom croaked sleepily, because it was three in the morning, and he’d been asleep until then. He stumbled out of bed and into the living room, settling down on the couch without turning on the lights.
“This is Tom,” he whispered quietly, “did you mean to call Chris?”
“I know who I called, you think I don’t know who I’m calling?”
“No, just—”
“You think I don’t know how to call my own husband?”
“Right, what is this about?” he sighed, really not wishing to start another argument.
“You and Chris had an argument, you’re being a jork.”

Silence.
“What?”
“I mean a jerk.”
“Ah. Well—” Tom yawned mid-sentence, then rubbed hard at his eyes. “Well, that’s between me and Chris, really…”
“Don’t go blaming him for how I’m calling, he didn't tell me to call.”
“I know.”
“You know?”
“I mean, okay.”
Tom gazed across the dark room at the outline of the television, the remote on the coffee table, a headset, two other remotes next to that. There was a painting on the wall of a vase of flowers that had been there since they’d moved in, with an ornate wooden frame, and a painting of a harbor next to that; with his eyes accustomed to the darkness, he could make out some of the details in the flower vase.
His knee rattled impatiently, he wanted to get this over with and get back to bed, but began to suspect it wouldn't be easy.
“Why are you being like this to him?”
“Like what?” Tom sighed, not really wanting to be mothered, but curiously relieved to shed responsibility for once.
“Don’t play dumb with me, you acted like everything was fine and then you decided you didn't want to.”
“I just don’t. Okay?”
“What do you mean, you just don’t?”
“I just don’t!”
“One day you got up and you just didn't want to?”
“Yeah. I guess. I don’t know.”
“Yeah, what about his feelings? You tell him you want to, and then one day you don’t, how do you think that feels?”
“Guys aren't like that, we don’t sit around, crying about our feelings—”
“Bullshit,” she snapped, here was another thing guys said when they wanted to feel masculine; the sheer volume of angsty love songs composed by males about the cruel fair proved to the contrary. You know, songs about how some guy fell in love with some woman because she was so pretty, but she was a cold-hearted bitch for not returning his affections— except he gets to fall in love with someone for being attractive, and she’s supposed to fall in love with someone because he was in love, regardless of whether he was attractive or not. That same guy was probably completely ignoring a bunch of other women who were in love with him at the same time, because he didn't think they were pretty. The entire concept of the friend zone is based on this premise, and fuck all if you don’t hear guys cry about their feelings in that regard all the time.
“You can’t make me fall in love with him, Elsa,” Tom whispered, extra quietly, because it would be an awful thing to overhear.
“I don’t need to,” she said, “you already love each other.”
“Not like that.”
“Bullshit.”
“You can’t rush this—”
“So you have to be a dick to him because love takes time?”
“You know, this isn't one-sided, I’m not this horrible villain—”
“Okay, you know what— fine. What’s your side, then?”
“What?”
“What’s your side of the story?”
“My side of the story?”
“Since it’s not one-sided.”
“Oh. My side of the story…” he trailed off, absently picking at his lip.
“Know what, forget it, I don’t have the patience for this. Go on and sleep together already.”
“What?”
“Why is this taking so long? You've been there how many weeks, what’s the problem?”
“Wait, wait—” Tom couldn't help chuckling at the absurdity of this. “Let me get this straight, you—”
“Me? I haven’t said a word to you couple of— of idiots— while you get into all this emotional bullshit…”
“You just want us to shag!”
“Obviously—”
Tom chuckled aloud and tossed himself back on the cushions, unable to hold back now. He sighed, enjoying this despite himself.
“You just, this whole emotional thing is just this massive obstacle on the way to watching us shag.”
“Yes! Wait, watching? I can watch?”
Tom laughed; he really liked her sometimes. “I can’t say no to that, you realize.”
“Then you’ll go and apologize?”
He sighed again. “It’s not that simple…”
“Stop being stupid, go there right now—”
“You can’t just—”
“Where are you, are you by him?”
“No, you can’t—”
“Just go! Is he sleeping? Wake him up and say you’re sorry.”
“Elsa—”
“Just go! You guys owe me!”
By that time, Chris had already been awakened by the noise and was meandering sleepily toward the living room; he paused by the door and remained there, disoriented, watching Tom on the phone, his hair completely disheveled. He was wearing fleece pajamas and absently scratching his chest from under his shirt, and murmured, “Who are you talking to?”
“Oh, he’s here,” Tom said, "you can talk to him if you want.” He’d begun walking toward Chris, but Elsa warned him, “Oh, no. You stay on the line. He’s here? Go apologize, then.”
Tom began to protest, but finally resigned. “All right,” he sighed, and turned to Chris with the phone still pressed to his ear.
“Elsa is making me apologize.”
“No! Not Elsa is making me!”
“Elsa isn't making me apologize.”
“No!”
“I’m apologizing, on my own, without anything to do with Elsa.”
Chris reached for the light; it was very bright when he flipped it on, and they both squinted against it.
“You’re talking to Elsa?” he asked.
Tom turned back to the phone, “He’s too sleepy, I can’t talk with him about stuff like that now.”
Chris was already reaching for the phone; but Tom gently batted his hand down. “She wants me to stay on the line.”
“What?”
“So she can tell me how I’m meant to apologize to you.”
“What?”
Chris’ collar was bent awkwardly into his shirt, his hair was jutting in what must have been the impression of his pillow. Like a kid who came to his parents’ room at night because he couldn't get to sleep.
“Fuck it,” Tom said, he put the phone down on the sofa and walked toward him, then got both hands on his cheeks. Chris stepped back and started peeling his hands away, Tom tried to kiss him but sort of missed.
“What are you doing?” Chris asked, and Tom didn't let go, “I’m trying to kiss you,” he said, and Chris appeared uncertain and confused.
“What? Why?”
“Your wife is about to kill me if I don’t.”
“Oh,” Chris said in a moment of clarity.
He let Tom lean forth and kiss him after that, and then made for the kitchen, like he’d forgot what woke him up and decided it was because he wanted something to drink.
Tom was back on the phone, Elsa asked what happened. “I kissed him,” Tom said, and Elsa asked, “And?”
“What and? And that’s that.”
“Go on and shag already!”
Tom snickered into one hand. “He’s bloody half-asleep, what, just go on and just, you know—”
“Let me talk to him.”
“Elsa wants to talk to you.”
Chris walked toward the phone, a bit more awake, not squinting against the light anymore. “What’s up,” he asked, then leaned back against the counter with a glass of water while Elsa went on about how she spoke with Tom and it’s okay for them to have sex now.
Now Chris was laughing, too, wiping his lips with the back of one hand after drinking, “Sounds like you've got it all sorted.”
“Yes! Just go!”
Twenty minutes after that, they were sat on Chris’ bed again, leaning on the wall, knees up on the mattress.
“We have been… so insensitive… to your wife…” Tom said, shaking his head in disbelief.
“We've been so selfish,” Chris replied, “she’s been so patient all along…”
“Not saying a word…”
“Just waiting, while we— you know—”
Tom leaned in to kiss him. Both unshaven, very tired, a little cold.
They didn't talk about whether they wanted to; they were tired emotionally. They settled on believing they were doing it for her. Chris lowered Tom on the mattress, carefully arranging himself as not to bear down on him with his weight; he’d been having at his neck for several moments before emerging quite perplexed. “But we already slept together once,” he said, “why isn't she counting that?”
Tom paused, brow furrowed. “Yeah, that’s right,” he said, “she already got what she wanted, why is she on about how, like…”
They regarded each other with utter confusion.
“Because we said it wasn't good,” Chris concluded, and it sounded sensible.
“Yeah, that’s why,” Tom agreed, “it has to be something worth telling about.”
“Something really dirty.”
“Right, we've got to do something really dirty.”
Chris laughed, one hand going over his eyes; he batted Tom inadvertently. “Oh— you all right— sorry— we don’t even know what we’re doing, it’ll come out really daft, if anything.”
“Let’s do something really daft, then.”
“We already are.”
Chris had his hand at the hem of Tom’s pajama bottoms, they both gazed down at where he gently slid his fingertips beneath. Like he were asking permission.
“It’s all right,” Tom said, voice very soft, his breath tasted familiar.
“You’re hard,” Chris murmured, with something like childlike curiosity; his fingers closed slowly around his cock.
“Yeah,” Tom said, eyes scanning his face.
“For me?”
Tom paused, like he were wondering if it was okay.
“Yeah,” he said again, a little shy.
Chris’ hair fell over his face when he leaned down to kiss him.
(On to Chapter 15)
- 13
- 14
- 15
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Bromance: A Hiddlesworth Story