CHAPTER 1: ENGLISH GENTLEMEN
Tom lay sprawled on the floor in his flat, wishing fervently that he could stay there for the rest of his life and never get up ever again. Ever. His back ached from the weight of Loki's leather and metal costume. The rest of him ached from the seemingly never-ending fight scenes, the scenes that he and the others acted out again and again and again until, finally, they were deemed convincing. Tom was exhausted; he wanted to melt into the clean wooden floor and sleep for, well, forever sounded rather good right now. And he was convinced he was beginning to suffer from character bleed, feeling himself caring more and more about Loki as a person, the boundaries almost starting to blur between reality and film. It was ridiculous, of course. The Dark World was, he knew, just another superhero movie, though one destined hopefully for mass box office success, but filming it was one of the most intense projects he'd ever taken part in.
Looking sleepily up at the ceiling, Tom reflected that Chris was probably the only person keeping him sane right now. His jokes, his broad smile, his easy kindness, and, just when Tom thought he couldn't, really couldn't, take another repetition of that scene, that anger and hatred and bitterness spewing from his, no, from Loki's mouth, the warm hand Chris put on the small of his back.
Tom valued their friendship more than almost anything else. And Chris was the only person he'd ever met who would willingly, without persuasion, cajoling or even bribery, make him tea on a film set. The tea was good too. That was impressive, he thought, for an Aussie.
The sound of the doorbell knocked him from his reverie. Tom tried and failed not to feel annoyed. Though naturally sociable, usually welcoming visitors at almost any hour, at this very moment he couldn't think of anything worse than having to stand up, to walk all the way to the hallway, and to actually expend energy opening the door. Then the smiles, the greetings, the pleasantries, hearing his or her reason for coming right now, tonight, when Tom could barely keep his eyes open. He was sorely tempted to turn his forehead back to the cool wood and simply ignore the insistent doorbell. He or she would probably go away. In the end.
But, Tom thought resolutely to himself through sleep's descending fog, I am British. I am an English gentleman and English gentleman do not sprawl on the floor while visitors shiver outside in cold city air. English gentlemen are good hosts. English gentlemen stand up. He stood up. (A little slowly perhaps but that, in Tom's opinion, was neither here nor there.) English gentlemen walk to the front door and open it. He walked to the front door and opened it. And there, standing on his doorstep with a truly vast pizza box and a six-pack of beer under his arm, was Chris.
I will not fall into his arms, thought Tom with gritty determination.
He fell into his arms.
x
I LOVE reviews. And I will reply to anything you say: praise, constructive criticism, not so constructive criticism, or even just comments that say 'OH MY GOD THESE TWO' because that is how I feel a lot of the time. Especially when I see those pictures of Tom just staring at Chris. You know the ones.
Next chapter up very soon! :D