His English Heart- A Tom Hiddleston Fanfiction

Do You Drink?

Oh, how thankful you were that your mother, his mother, and his sisters weren’t here today. You loved them all dearly, of course, but right now you just needed to be alone with Tom and fifty two different flavors of cake.

Cake and the drink menu.

But you and half of your family didn’t condone alcohol, and so it seemed that this may be one of the first things Tom and you ever would fight about. You didn’t want any form of liquor there, and he did. He kept insisting that champagne be served for at least a toast and you still didn’t know how you felt about that.

For some strange reason, as the attendant leaves the table, allowing you and Tom to giggle over the cakes and feel like you were invincible to sugar rushes (and crashes), you recall a memory. Almost two years ago, you were so nervous to even visit Tom’s apartment alone.

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Calm down.

It’s pizza. Pizza. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Pizza.

He’s cute when he eats.

Stop. Nope. Not happening.

You crawl up to a stoplight, the pizza in the seat beside you is making the entire car smell like cheese. The dark, wet pavement reflects the streetlights ahead of you. There’s a long pause where you force yourself to stay out of your mind and focus on the traffic light.

He’s not cute. He’s not handsome. He’s not attractive.

“He’s not,” you say assuredly.

He’s not smart, or talented, or funny.

“Or charming.”

And the way he looks when you’ve just played a prank on him…

You hit the button for the radio a bit too hard. Music fills the car and you roll the windows down to let in some fresh air.

“There’s another system coming in from the south that should hit around nine,” the weather forecaster is saying, “It’ll be stronger than this first round, so make sure to stay indoors…”

So you’ll be stuck at his apartment anyway.

You change the station, catching the tail end of a song you’ve heard twice. Deciding to leave it, you turn right onto another street.

“That was the song of the week, and I’m Chet Smith, leaving you with hits of the eighties. Goodnight, and God bless.”

The music starts, and the tune sounds familiar.

The way he leaves little notes and messages everywhere for you to find.

You absentmindedly start thinking about your green sneakers.

When he thinks that he did an awful job when in fact, the performance knocked you off your feet.

“How could he think he didn’t do amazing in every scene??”

His terms of endearment… Yes, love.

“Why does he always call me that?” You find yourself scoffing.

His eyes light up when he talks to you.

You stop thinking those thoughts.

You don’t. Because you can’t. Cannot afford to think that way.

He’s just a friend.

Only. A. Friend.

You pull up to another stoplight and actually pause to listen to the song.