Bromance: A Hiddlesworth Story

For a pale English guy, Tom spent an awful lot of time outdoors. He'd get up early to run, he’d bike if he could’ve brought his bike along, but what he really loved was tennis. He'd talk to you about that all day if he didn't suspect it would bore you to tears.

During their time in Iceland, Chris had grown accustomed to waking at exactly fifteen minutes past five in the morning, when Tom's alarm would go off. He'd pretend to sleep through it, because they shared a room and if Tom knew his alarm woke him every morning, he'd undoubtedly feel bad about that. Chris would watch in the darkness as Tom gingerly moved through the room, sliding the drawers open very slowly to keep quiet, even after his alarm had been loud; he’d collect his jogging clothes in one hand, illuminating the inside of a drawer with his phone, then pad his way to the bathroom to change.

Chris could hear him brush his teeth, the brief spray of deodorant, sounds of containers placed on the counter; he'd cough and clear his throat, there’d be the slide of fabric as he changed out of his night clothes. Then there was something of a hollow feeling when he’d seat himself at the edge of his bed and put on his trainers, rapid with the laces, the last thing before he’d head out—

—then the small apartment would be lain in silence.

The sound of the hallway clock ticking, the fridge buzzing in the kitchen, stuff you don't pay attention to until you're left alone; Chris couldn't get back to sleep. He'd lethargically slide the sheets away and climb out of bed to get to the bathroom, where the sink still was wet, Tom's comb still at the side of the basin. He ought to join in on his runs,  he’d think this every morning but end up going back to sleep after that.

"My wife thinks I should fuck you," he yawned to Tom one morning, still half asleep and turned with his back to the room. Tom had been rummaging through a drawer for his socks, "Who doesn’t think that," he replied without turning around; here was nothing new, anyone with an internet connection knew that.  Funny how much safer it sounded now that it was irreversibly out in the open, like already it were well-trodden ground.

"Told her I ought to wine and dine you first," Chris murmured sleepily, voice muffled on his pillow.

"I look forward to that," Tom said without missing a beat, he headed to the bathroom for his morning routine; his voice emanated vaguely, "I'd like a baked potato…!"

Chris had walked in on him touching himself once, they both startled and burst out laughing, Chris spun the other way and cried humorously, "Put that away...!" After that, he added, “Thinking of me, were you,” and Tom was quick to reply, “Even I think of myself when I do it, doesn’t everyone?” He was blushing quite hotly, however, despite the clever response.

Not like they hadn’t seen each other naked before, not like there was a person on earth who didn’t get off, but it was something embarrassing to walk on regardless. Tom hadn’t said he’d heard Chris get off late at night, probably meaning to be quiet, breath coming shallow and unmistakably familiar for what it was.

The brother he’d never had and always wanted, he’d have walked in on him ages ago if they’d grown up together; in their adolescence the internet was still at its early years, they’d probably have hidden porn magazines. Tom would have whispered, Where’d you get this? And Chris would’ve smirked, not telling you— because the truth would be far less scandalous than whatever he’d leave him assuming.

Chris would have been the older brother, even if he really was younger than Tom. He would’ve driven him and picked him up from rugby before Tom had learned to drive. They would’ve had bunk beds well into their teens, and Chris would've let Tom have the top bunk.

It would've been so much cooler than having two sisters.

"I don’t understand why it's always Chris who’s meant to be on top, and I'm on the bottom," Tom said over dinner. They were out with a large group from the set after a long day filming, everyone exhausted but in spirited moods. Tom and Chris were sat beside one another, both laughing into their drinks. Tom indicated Chris with his hand as to demonstrate, "Really, who came up with that?"

Chris was now fully grinning, half the table laughing along. "I'm bigger, mate," he said, and winked across the table at their makeup artists, who nodded like it were sound deduction of logic. One of them raised an eyebrow and snickered, “Bigger how?”

Now both Chris and Tom flushed brightly and burst into mutual laughter, Chris waving his hand around and denying the whole thing. "Nooo… Not bigger like that…!"

Tom briefly looked down, then back up at Chris, "This conversation has taken a turn for the dangerous," he chuckled. Now they were going to defend each other. Chris was going to say Tom definitely did have Mjolnir in his pants, he was going to talk like it was something he personally knew. Deliberately unashamed.

"No, I agree, mate," Chris said, "you would be on top."

The waitress arrived with their food, proceeding to place the dishes before everyone seated; she was most of the way to setting one of the smaller plates for Chris when he looked up from his drink; he grinned  toothily and indicated Tom. "No," he said, "that's meant for him."

Tom turned from where he was placing the napkin in his lap; he laughed straight away, reaching to slide the baked potato toward himself. "Where’s my wine?" he asked.