Four: Heartache on the Big Screen (T)
Tom thinks he's a pretty good fake boyfriend, until he almost fucks it all up on live TV.
He's back in London at last, completing the final press obligation for his new film. It's late, and he's sat on Graham Norton's infamous red sofa. It's been a good evening - the drinks are flowing, the audience responsive, and Tom's riding high on the thrill of it all. There's just a little blunder near the end of the show that sends it all spinning off...
"So, what do you think of Y/N's newest film, Tom?" Graham asks, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. A round of excited applause rolls through the studio audience, and the host's smile widens. "I know, it was great, wasn't it?"
Tom freezes. Despite the close call on Fallon two months ago, he hasn't been able to make time to see your film. It's not as if he's been avoiding it, but he's been so busy with the press tour, and his family, and his shooting schedule that it's completely slipped his mind. You have slipped his mind.
"Uh, it was amazing," he bluffs. Tom stitches a bright smile to his face as he sits a little straighter and rubs his palms together. He does everything in his power to appear as in control as possible. "She's so talented, isn't she?"
"Oh, absolutely. What was your favourite part?"
Tom's smile gets a little forced, but he does his best to keep his cool. "Oh, Graham, I see what you're doing," he accuses, squinting his eyes. "You're trying to get me to reveal spoilers, aren't you?"
Thankfully the host takes the bait, and the conversation shifts away from you and back onto Tom, and as painful as it is to relive some of his press mishaps, Tom is glad for the change of topic. It's hard to be someone's fake boyfriend - especially when you've been apart for a month. Tom's never been particularly fond of you, but he'll admit now that it's easier to be your boyfriend when you're around him - apparently long distance is hard for fake couples, too.
The encounter on Norton shakes Tom up so much that he uses his first day off in two months to go into central London and watch your film.
He's glad it's a Thursday, because the cinema is quiet as he walks through the doors at 11am. Tom's alone - wearing a large black hoodie, his grey sweats and a dark baseball cap over his head. He starts out with sunglasses too, but decides that they're overkill when he can barely navigate his way down the vast hallways. He's recognised by the lady who gives him popcorn, and also by the man who checks his ticket, but other than that, Tom manages to fly beneath the radar. He's glad for it - a month-long press tour, for all it's exciting, is draining, and he's relieved to be able to escape it for a few hours.
Tom stows away in the back corner of the screen, and he turns off his phone as the lights go dark, and the story begins.
There's something very poetic about the way you act, he thinks. There's a scene where you're standing in the centre of a golden hayfield, surrounded by a flurry of purple butterflies. The camera sweeps around you, highlighting your figure with a gentle, soft halo of warmth, and it makes you look so beautiful. Tom watches with wide eyes as you interact with the butterflies, their colours stark and vibrant against your skin, your lips, your hair. It's breathtaking.
As the film progresses, Tom finds himself enjoying it - but he will admit it makes him feel just a little uncomfortable to watch you roll around in a bed with your co-star. He feels a stab of something in his chest, and the sensation reminds him of when he'd picked you up from set and seen you messing around with Joe. Shame burns alongside guilt. Tom's felt like a dick ever since he'd pounced on you and kissed you in front of your friend, and he still hasn't been able to figure out why he'd acted so possessively. The urge to walk over and somehow stake a claim on you, in front of everyone on that set, had blinded him - almost as if he was an emotional, volatile teen again. He's not proud of it, and he knows the scorch of shame had contributed to him running out on you the following morning.
Tom's eyes narrow as he watches your co-star kiss along your neck and your collarbones, and then his ears twitch uncomfortably as he hears the sounds of wet lips colliding. The way your eyebrows arch as you're kissed behind your ear, and the way your fingers curl into heated fists as you're caressed and held. The film isn't risqué in any way, but Tom finds his mind wandering, drifting away down a rabbit hole, and despite his best efforts, he wonders, briefly, what it'd be like to kiss your neck. Would you press into him like that? Would you drag him closer? Would you let him mark you up?
Tom startles, shaking himself from his daze. He blinks profusely, embarrassment replacing his delusions. He has to stop this. Stop his mind spinning off to inappropriate depths when he thinks of you. Recently, it's sort of become a habit.
The film flies by, and Tom can feel the conclusion coming as the tone grows darker. He watches, utterly enraptured, as your character takes a final blow, sacrificing herself for the greater good, and...
Shit, is he crying?
Tom realises in a moment of horror that he's got tears in his eyes. With startled, cold hands, he reaches up and feels the tops of his cheeks wet with emotion. He tries to stem the flow, but as he watches your character slip away, he finds himself wallowing in it. It's horrible. He's watched an on-screen death before - hell, he's acted them out - but the sight of you all battered and weakened makes him feel rattled. He hates seeing any suggestion of pain across your face, and despite being sat alongside an entire audience, it feels personal.
As he sits there in the dark cinema, in pieces, Tom truly appreciates your skills. He regretfully realises that you are an exceptional talent, and he's been a complete and utter dick - for first, never having given your films a shot, but second, for the way he has continuously and unfairly brushed aside your career over the years.
Tom hates to admit it, but he'd taken his win at the BAFTAs as a twisted, divine sign that he was better than you. Every time you'd insulted him or goaded him on, he'd always, always fallen on his win as his consolation. Tom has never given either you or your career a proper chance - not since that night - and he's aware too that he's taken every subsequent opportunity to lord the award above your head - whether or not he was conscious of it. And now... Well, now Tom's crying in the cinema, and he feels like the biggest bellend in London.
When the lights come back on, Tom decides to wait for the theatre to drain out before walking out. Crowds are usually bad, and he doesn't particularly fancy being spotted with his cheeks puffy and his eyes all bloodshot, so instead, he whips out his phone and immediately goes to Twitter.
@tomholland1996: Just saw Y/F/N, and I genuinely think it's the best piece of cinema I've seen all year. Get yourself out and see it. @Y/N is phenomenal.
He sends off the tweet without a second thought, and he watches as the replies stream in. With one hand he scrolls through, occasionally liking and retweeting a few funny responses, and he uses his other to rub at his tearful eyes. Next, he goes to his texts, his thumb pressing your contact firmly.
Things between you both have been weird, since he stayed over at yours a few weeks ago. His eyes skim the old texts as he goes over it again.
Tom: thanks for having me last night. had to run out.
Y/N (girlfriend): where did you go? thought you were staying until 10.
Tom: issue with Tessa, had to take her to the vets.
Y/N (girlfriend): oh no, is she okay?
Tom: yeah, she'll be fine. thanks again. I had a nice evening.
Y/N (girlfriend): no problem. I hope she'll get better soon.
It was a lie. Tessa was fine. In fact, Tessa was all the way back in London, not that you knew any better.
With a lump in his throat, Tom puts his phone on his knee and pinches the bridge of his nose, groaning softly. He'd woken up that morning feeling very much worse for wear - and not just because his head felt hungover and dry. Tom had... Well, he'd liked fooling around with you all evening, which for starters, was odd. He'd never thought himself capable of enjoying his time with you, yet you'd drunk wine together and watched films, and done whatever the fuck you'd like to call that scene in your bed. You'd frolicked around like old friends, which was a stark contrast to normal. Hell, he'd even asked you to kiss him.
He'd liked it. Then he'd woken up, freaked, and bolted. He'd regretted it the second he'd stepped out the front door and met the hordes of paparazzi who'd spent all night camped outside your building, but the damage was done, and he had to follow through. He'd even gone as far as to tell Harrison that, if you happened to ask, Tessa was ill.
Tom's not proud of it. He's sure the fact he ran out without seeing you has made his inner turmoil worse. If he'd stayed, he could've got a read on the vibe between you. Now he's left awkwardly clutching at nothing, and it's been two weeks of awkwardly texting and tiptoeing around you because he doesn't know if he's misread the whole thing. Through Tom's eyes, your night together had been good - two people, enjoying themselves, getting closer. But what if it was just an obligation to you?
After a few minutes, his phone buzzes, and Tom finds his eyes lifting to read the notification.
Y/N (girlfriend): wow whichever member of your PR team tweeted that is a genius
Y/N (girlfriend): they're calling you boyfriend of the year. l o l.
Tom rolls his eyes, his lips twitching into almost a smile.
Tom: thanks for the compliment
Tom: I am the genius
Tom: I tweeted it
Y/N (girlfriend): ?????? you saw my film ???
Tom: yeah. why didn't you tell me it was so good? it made me cry
As he waits on your response, Tom clicks onto your contact and decides to update it. First, he changes out your name, removing the blatant bracketed information that Harrison had given him when he'd programmed your number into his phone, then Tom decides to give you a contact photo. He'd stubbornly refused to assign you anything - content with the faceless automatic picture - but he feels that might be a little harsh, now.
Tom scrolls through his photos, eyes managing to peek through the cracks in his phone screen until he finds his way to the pictures you'd taken together at your place. He bites his lip as he selects one of the best photos. You'd taken a lot together, but his favourite has to be the one of you both curled up in bed. You're draped out across his torso sleepily, eyes closed, arms around his chest, and one of Tom's hands rests over your back. If he squints, he can almost believe that you were asleep on him.
Y/N ❤️: well I'd have to be a bit of a narcissist to hype up my own film that much.
Y/N ❤️: glad you liked it :))
Y/N ❤️: not glad the fans are saying you're such a great boyfriend though. thought I was the best fake partner in this relationship :////
Tom chuckles, his teeth tracing his lower lip as he ponders a response.
Tom: if they're calling me boyfriend of the year, I think that means I'm the best fake partner, actually.
Y/N ❤️: you wanna bet?
Tom: sure.
Y/N ❤️: fine. just you wait, I'll prove I'm the best
Tom: lol
Tom: bring it on.
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What follows can only be described as a petty battle of one-upmanship that brings Tom an embarrassing amount of amusement. The air between you feels clearer, and for the next two weeks, you and Tom go back and forth, each of you breaking out every dirty trick in the book to prove that you are the superior fake partner.
It starts off innocently. Your initial rebuttal to his tweets is a series of Instagram stories, showing first that you were watching Spider-Man Homecoming, and then that you'd migrated over to YouTube to watch some compilation videos of Tom. It makes him feel oddly warm inside, to see your public story show his face, doused in one of those loved-up pink Instagram filters, with the caption 'cutest guy ever? I think so'.
In response, Tom posts one of the staged photographs: the two of you, standing on your balcony, his arms wrapped around you as you both stared out over the city, captioned 'just the two of us'. You'd had to grab the shot on self-timer, and it's a little blurry, but once Tom ropes Harry into it, the post comes together perfectly.
The fans lap it up. Tom's really never seen anything like it. The initial comments of distrust and confusion about the whole relationship melt away almost immediately, and the remarks on Tom's Instagram and Twitter go from being his fans confused and angry to their overwhelming favour in support of your 'relationship'. Everyone seems to be buying it, and it's a nice feeling.
Your rivalry is all very docile and sweet, and Tom's enjoying it - until he arrives home after spending the day with his parents to find Harrison glowering at him, irritation rolling off him in waves.
"Explain this!" Harrison exclaims, the moment Tom's through the door. He sounds angry, in his typical perplexed Harrison fashion. Tom doesn't know what to expect, but as he walks into the kitchen, he finds the air dying in his throat.
"What are you yelling about- oh..."
Roses. Everywhere. Buckets of deep-hued red flowers cover every surface in the kitchen: the table, the counters, the cabinets. The scent is overpowering - pure, unadulterated romance, and it makes Tom's eyes sting.
"Explain."
Harrison's got his arms crossed over his chest, his icy blue eyes full of bewildered irritation.
"Uh, I don't really know," Tom puzzles. He scratches at his chin as he walks into the room, eyes flying around the flowers. Eventually, he spots two white envelopes tucked amidst the flowers. "When did these come?" He asks, ripping open the first letter.
"This afternoon. They brought a van." Harrison pauses. "A bloody van, Tom. Why the fuck are you ordering so many roses?"
"It wasn't me," Tom mutters. He pulls out the note from the envelope entitled, 'For Instagram <3'. His eyes skim the lines.
My love,
500 roses for the man that makes my heart so happy. I love you to the moon and back, and I can't wait to see you soon. I miss you.
Y/N xxxxx
Tom scoffs. "Fucking hell," he mutters. He glances up at Harrison. "Y/N."
As Harrison starts to release a torrent of exciting expletives, Tom rips open the second letter, printed with 'For Tom :)'.
Tom,
Not to brag, but I did tell you I was the best fake partner :) Sorry that there's so many - I hope your house is big enough! Thought it only fair I do my bit to make your place a bit warmer before I come to stay with you next week.
Y/N.
P.S. have I won now?
"Bloody hell," Tom mutters. He releases a loud laugh, and then sighs, his shoulders sagging as a bright smile finds his lips. He looks to Harrison, who still looks frazzled. "She's mad."
"Uh, yeah," Harrison mutters. "What the fuck are we supposed to do with these? There's got to be, what, four hundred?" He waves his hand dramatically and knocks over a bucket in the process. Tom can't stop himself from chuckling as the roses go flying, and Harrison curses again.
"Five hundred," he corrects, biting at his lip. "Well, first I need to put something up on Instagram, apparently, and then we can, uh... Figure something out."
In the end, they drive around Kingston and drop off extravagant bouquets to anyone they can think of. Tom's parents get a considerable amount, as does Harrison's sister, and the rest are split between friends and neighbours. The generous gifts land them both with a torrent of grateful praise, and any irritation Tom had felt goes fizzling away as the lady next door calls him a handsome charmer when he gives her a bunch. Instagram, as expected, goes crazy, and Tom catches himself featured in yet another round of articles written by Lad Bible and The Sun, highlighting everything from your relationship timeline to fans' reactions to your recent PDA.
He has to admit, it seems like you and Tom are better at faking your relationship than an entire PR team. He doesn't really acknowledge that you're both actively partaking in the rouse now.
"Right. Let's chat, then."
Harrison sits him down that evening in the living room. Their whole house stinks of roses, and the only reason he's still talking to him is because Tom had won back his favour by buying him Nandos. Now they're both stuffed with chicken and reclining in a tired heap on the couch.
"Yeah?"
Harrison crosses his arms. "What's going on?" He asks. His gaze intensifies when Tom feigns innocence. "No, don't give me any of that. Why's Y/N sending you five hundred roses, Tom? I thought this was just a stupid competition."
Tom releases a curt laugh. "Haz, by now you should know that I never understand why Y/N does anything that she does," but he says it nicely, and pairs the statement with a shrug. The sentiment is true. He wonders briefly if you ever get nervous and act irrationally around him like he's come to be around you. "We're competitive. She wants to prove she's the better fake partner or something. I dunno." He looks away sheepishly. "It's fun."
"Fun." Harrison grabs fistfuls of his hair. "Mate, fun is tweeting, fun is not spending hundreds of pounds on flowers."
"Yeah, well, I didn't buy them, did I?"
"That's not the point."
"Then what is the point, Harrison?"
Harrison clicks his tongue. "I just think it's funny," he says slowly, picking his words carefully. "When did you stop hating each other?"
Tom opens his mouth to protest this statement, but finds the words of denial dying in his throat. Instead, he says,
"I don't know." There's a brief pause. "I guess we got to know one another."
Harrison raises his eyebrows. "So you'll admit it, then?"
"Admit what?"
"I was right." He's got a cocky smirk on his face. "I told you, didn't I? That once you got to know Y/N, you'd love her."
"Woah, woah, woah." Tom's got his hands in the air and his voice pitched right up. "Who said anything about loving her? I tolerate her, and we get on better, but we're barely even friends, Harrison. Calm down."
Harrison wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, and Tom throws a couch cushion at him in response.
"Ow," he mutters, glaring at Tom. "Fine. When's she coming, again?"
Tom sighs. Another clause of the relationship agreement is that you'll be staying in his and Harrison's house for the three weeks it takes you to complete a round of press in London.
"Next week," Tom says. "Wednesday."
"Fantastic." Harrison rubs at a spot on his knee, grimacing. "At least you won't be at each other's throats. I don't think I could handle living with you both if it was still volatile like that."
Tom just chuckles. "Yeah, well imagine being trapped in the middle of it."
------------
The scent of roses is still thick in the air come the following Wednesday, and as Tom leaves his house at 4am for the airport, it hurts his nose. He'd called a cease-fire on the whole competition after Harrison had caught him looking - looking, not seriously considering, thank you very much - at a BMW catalogue. He'd conceded to you the title of Best Fake Partner, and you've been flexing your win at any given opportunity.
Much to his surprise, Tom finds himself anticipating your visit quite fondly. He knows you'll probably get roped into press engagements and public outings together, but a part of him has missed you, as odd and disconcerting as it is to admit. Whilst the situation itself is not ideal, he isn't mad that you'll be staying in his house for the next few weeks.
He is, however, quite grumpy. It's too early, and his car's heater takes forever to start up. By the time Tom arrives at the airport, he's got a bit of a permanent frown on his face, but he tries to whip away the lines of tension. He waits in his car, texting you as you update him on which area of the airport you're in. The paparazzi are all lingering by the arrivals gate, and whilst you need to complete a staged airport reunion together, Tom doesn't want to be standing there, getting awkwardly harassed by the photographers for any longer than he has to.
Y/N ❤️: so I'm thinking we go really dramatic for our reunion
Tom: how dramatic?
Y/N ❤️: might be fun if I drop all of my bags and jump into your arms, like in all of those old romantic films
Tom: they'd love that. I'm down
Y/N ❤️: you sure you can handle that?
Tom: with my big guns? duh. offended you'd even ask
Y/N ❤️: alright. but if you drop me I'm going to be really mad.
-
It's just after 5am when you finally emerge through the arrivals gate. Tom's leaning up against a column, his head panging tiredly, but everything seems to fade away as his eyes lock with yours.
The world stops for a moment. Tom takes in your loose Midtown hoodie, and the way your lips quirk up into a bit of a cute smile when you see him. He's glad you aren't in sunglasses because he quite likes the way your eyes seem to twinkle as you wave enthusiastically at him.
It's just as dramatic as you'd plotted out over text. You both surge forward, and as you grow nearer to Tom, you let go of your suitcase and bound up to him. Tom's heart is beating at about a thousand miles an hour, and as you go to jump into his arms, he feels his mind going blank. He's completely blindsided - his mind spinning with a confusing array of conflicting emotions, and he does the one thing he knows you'll never let him live down - he drops you.
Or, rather, his arms stay frozen at his side, and the momentum behind your movements means the both of you go flying to the hard airport floor, your squeals mixing with his grunts. Tom's back slams against the ground as you end up straddling his waist, and there's an array of flashes and clicks as the scene around you is documented.
You look almost ethereal, sat up on top of him, your weight pressing over Tom's waist. You're tired, with bags beneath your eyes and your hair a little worse for wear, but you reach up and wrap your hands into his curls, and then your mouth is at his ear. He can hear the smile in your voice as you murmur, gently,
"Big guns my ass."
It probably looks cute to everyone, how Tom chuckles in response as he beams back at you. "Sorry," he mutters. You're so close, your breath smelling minty and fresh, your eyes searching his, and Tom reaches up to hold your waist. "Took me off-guard."
You give him a shy smile. "Can I kiss you?" You ask. Tom nods.
The kiss you share is imbued with passion, and it knocks the air from his lungs. With your fingers pulling gently on his hair and your lips so soft and silky nestled up against his, Tom finds himself kissing you back with warmth in his heart. It's a lovely, long kiss, and Tom paws at your waist, not really caring that the moment is being observed - all he really cares about is it's you, and him, tangled up closely, messy like always, but you're together. And it feels... nice.
When he pulls away to suck in a breath, Tom finds his cheeks aching.
"I missed you," he blurts out, his tired mind speaking the words he feels so deeply as he stares up at your radiant face. There's no one around to hear what he's saying - he's speaking from his heart.
"You did?" You ask, voice tender.
Tom nods, the action small. "Yes."
You lean down and kiss him again, this time softer. Your lips linger over his, mouths touching, and Tom swears his heart could burst out of his chest at any moment.
"Well," you say, pulling away with a gentle smile on your face, "I guess I missed you too."