The Fame Game || Tom Holland

+ extra bits

Tom's alone, and it's late. He's scrolling through Instagram, and his eyebrows shoot up his forehead as he opens Harrison's story and sees you staring back at him. As Tom clicks through the whole thing, there's only more - you and Harrison, you dancing in the bar, Harrison smiling at you. Tom groans, and when the story runs out, he opens up his texts and goes to his conversation with you.

Maybe 'conversation' is a bit too kind. The screen shows two messages, but they're both from Tom, and both left on read - again.

Tom: Hey Y/N, it's Tom Holland. Harrison gave me your number, so I thought I'd drop you a message just to say I'll be in town next week if you were free and wanted to grab a drink? Big fan of your work.

Tom: Hi again, just wondering if you saw my last message...?

Tom groans, tossing his phone aside and pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers. He knows - or, rather, hopes - that he hasn't done anything to annoy you. You've never met each other, never communicated - nothing. And yet, you're continuously avoiding him, and now you're hanging out with his best mate without him.

It's bewildering.

The front door slams shut, and Tom sighs as he hears Harrison enter the house with a clatter. He stands up, walking through to the porch where he leans up against the doorframe and watches his friend hop about, trying to pull off his shoes and jacket, and getting stuck in the process - jacket half hanging off, one shoe discarded in the middle of the room.

"Had fun, Haz?" Tom asks, smirking. Harrison jumps, looking up, and Tom scoffs as he takes in how red and bloodshot his eyes are.

"Yeah," Harrison murmurs, "Fucking great. Just had... A bit too much to drink, I think." He looks down, glaring at his shoe. "Stupid fucking thing won't come off." He waggles his leg, and Tom sighs.

"Stay still," he mutters, dropping to the floor in front of Harrison. As he unpicks his best mate's incredibly knotted laces, he asks, "Y/N was there. Did she mention me?"

Harrison hums. "Yeah, yeah. I told her what you said- y'know, about thinking she was rude for ignoring you. She didn't really like that."

Tom feels his blood run cold, fingers slacking. "You told her what?"

Harrison blinks down at Tom, shrugging. "Yeah, sorry mate, I realised once I said it that I fucked up. But- but if it's any consolation, she said it wasn't intentional. Apparently, she's just been busy."

Tom sits back on the floor after he's pulled off Harrison's shoe, glaring at his friend.

"But she probably thinks I'm a dickhead now," Tom complains. He watches as Harrison goes back to wriggling out of his jacket.

"Eh, I mean... I told her you just wanted to be friends, but she was quite hung up on it." Harrison bites his lip before staggering over to Tom, pulling him off the floor and giving him a rough pat on the back. "Look, mate. You're both going to the BAFTAs soon, right? Just make up then. It'll be fine, I'm sure."

Tom sucks in a breath, and he has to try very hard to bite back a snarky comment.

"Fine," he mutters. "But Haz, if what you've told her has fucked up our relationship, then-"

"Oh, it'll be fine." Harrison's twirling a hand through the air, but behind the carefree drunken buzz, Tom knows his friend is nervous. "You'll get on great, Tom. You're so similar." He nudges him, grinning. "I think you guys could be a lot more than just great friends, you know."

Tom rolls his eyes but finds himself smiling fondly at his friend nonetheless.

"Let's get you to bed, then," he says, wrapping an arm around Harrison. "You're just talking shit now."