FIVE: I Wanna Hold Your Hand (Y)
Your trip to London is going well until you have a little mishap with Tom's washing machine.
It's not your fault, really. You'd been all over the place - press engagement here, fake date there - and you hadn't been thinking as you'd shoved your brand new, freshly-worn red dress into the machine, alongside a collection of Tom's favourite white t-shirts. It hadn't even dawned on you what you'd managed to do until you heard a very loud, disgruntled yelp come from the laundry room.
"What's wrong?" You yell reluctantly, voice echoing through the large house. You're very comfortable where you are - burrowed beneath a heap of blankets and cushions on Tom and Harrison's squishy sofa in the living room. You're a week into your visit, and it's safe to say you have made yourself at home.
"Y/N! Do you not understand how a washing machine works?!" It's Harrison. Immediately you feel trepidation creeping into your veins. "Come here!"
Shuffling guiltily, you slowly make your way to the laundry room. When you enter, you gasp as you see Harrison holding up a shirt you recognise immediately as Tom's, stained a nice, bright pink.
"Oh no," you mutter. Your hands fly up to your face. "Are they all like that?"
Harrison nods, humming. For all the irritation of his yell, he's looking at you with an amused smirk on his face. "Seems like you'll need to do a bit of grovelling. I'm just glad they're all Tom's, and not mine."
You pinch at the bridge of your nose. "Great," you mutter. "This is fantastic."
———
You take a bottle of water as your peace offering to Tom, who's out in the back garden messing around with a punching bag. When he sees you, he pauses his punches, throwing out a toothy grin in your direction. He's shirtless, lower half wrapped in a pair of black basketball shorts, and he looks quite nice with his face flushed a rosy red and his brown curls thrown in every direction.
"Hi," Tom calls out, stopping his assault on the punching bag. "You alright?"
You manage a tight-lipped smile as you pass him the bottle. "Yeah," you mutter. "Are you?"
Tom looks at you sceptically, raising a ruffled eyebrow. "Are you sure?" He questions. "You look a bit... stressed."
You deflate. It's as if he can see right through you. "Fine," you admit. "I did something bad, and you're going to be annoyed with me, but before I tell you what it was, I want you to know that it was an accident and I feel horrible about it, okay?"
Tom tilts his head, laughing nervously. "Is it as bad as the time you told Ellen I was the worst celebrity in Hollywood?" You shake your head profusely, gnawing your lower lip. Guilt sweeps across you, but you're too nervous to focus on that now. "Then it's fine, Y/N. Just tell me what happened."
It's odd - how quickly your relationship has broken down into something so much gentler. When you'd stepped off the plane and tumbled into Tom's arms a week ago, you'd been full to the brim with apprehension about your trip. But he's managed to ease you at every point - offering you tea, a nice bed, and unlimited time with his dog Tessa (who really might be your favourite Holland now). He hasn't goaded you, or teased you, or pushed you too far. Part of you wants to know what's changed, what's catalysed his change of heart, but a larger piece of you doesn't want to open up that dialogue for fear of him turning it onto you.
Tom's being nice to you, and without any digging comments to respond to, you're being nice in return. It really is that frustratingly simple. The residual tension and anger that has been a part of your relationship for so long have dipped beneath the surface, and whilst you still feel them somewhere, bubbling away, your relationship feels looser.
Things between you are tender. Breakable and fragile, but like a tentative new beginning. You're almost friends now - which is why you are so annoyed that you might've fucked it all up with one stupid mistake.
"I mixed colours in the washing machine and stained all of your shirts," you blurt out. "I'll buy you new ones."
Tom takes a moment to process this, his face pinching into an expression of irritation. "All of them?" He repeats, his accent pronounced.
"All of them that were in the washing machine," you mutter, kicking at the ground. "Maybe ten."
His jaw flexes, and you prepare yourself for a harsh insult or a snarky comment. You haven't heard any recently, but you can almost imagine it, your mind familiar with his chide remarks.
Tom releases a breath. "It's fine," he says finally, defying all of your expectations. "Mistakes happen."
You raise your eyebrows. "I'm really sorry," you emphasise. You watch as Tom flicks off the lid of the bottle and starts to chug the water, using his other hand to card through his messy brown strands. His sweaty hair sticks to his fingers.
"It's fine," he repeats. Tom even throws in a bit of a smile to ease you. "I need new shirts, anyway." He wiggles his eyebrows. "Even better if you're the one paying."
You roll your eyes, releasing a breath of relief. "I knew you were only dating me for the money," you tease, gasping dramatically. "You're just a gold digger!"
Tom clutches a hand to his heart, and you find your gaze briefly flittering over the defined lines of his muscular chest.
"I can't believe you listened to those rumours about me," he responds, his voice equally as performative as yours. "I thought you were better than this!"
You descend into a round of giggles together, and Tom's deep, hearty laughs are like music to your ears.
———
The following day, you find yourself walking down Carnaby Street, hand wrapped in Tom's. Your other arm carries an array of heavy shopping bags. Despite halving your purchases with Tom, the bags weigh heavily on your arm, the tight lines of the handles pinching at your skin.
But you don't care - not really. You're too busy listening to Tom as he tells you about the last time he'd been down this street - last Christmas, with his brother Paddy, apparently.
"-Yeah, so that's how he bullied me into spending five hundred quid on his present," Tom finishes, pausing as you laugh. "He's such a sneak."
"Paddy seems nice," you say. You've got a broad smile on your face as the warm spring sun beats down across your skin. It's the first properly sunny day since you arrived in London, and it feels like the sun's come out, just for you. "Your whole family seem lovely, actually."
"Harry's a bit of a twat," Tom says, "But the rest of them are alright." There's a brief pause, and you glance over to see him looking at the ground, a thoughtful expression on his face. He looks up at you, nerves visibly in his eyes. "Would you want to meet them?"
You swallow back the apprehensive lump that forms in your throat. "Your family?"
"Well, my parents and Paddy. You've met the others already. We're planning on going bowling tomorrow night if you want to come with us."
"You'd want me to meet your family?"
Tom shrugs. "Yeah. They want to meet you."
Your eyes widen, and you stop walking. Around you, shoppers and families pass you by, trailing up and down the busy shopping high street. Tom pauses, turning to face you, his thumb brushing casually across the back of your hand as he stares at you curiously.
"Don't they hate me?" You ask tentatively. You both know why his family might think of you unfondly. Your family certainly doesn't view Tom in a positive light.
Tom shakes his head, a bit of an awkward expression curling over his face. It gets uncomfortable now whenever your past is brought up. It seems both of you would rather skate around the topic than address it. You know avoidance is a bad idea, but pretending your relationship wasn't built on resentment and crossed wires is easier than addressing the elephant in the room. Whenever you think about your history, it makes you feel angry - there are a lot of unforgiven sins hiding there, but you're trying to bury them. You're trying desperately to move on, but you can feel them following behind you like an anchor you don't want to acknowledge yet. You can't quite shake the feeling that this tactic of avoidance may, eventually, blow up in your face.
"They'd like to meet you. You're going to be a part of my life for the next three months, Y/N, and... And I'd like to think we are, uh, sort of friends now."
You nervously bite at your lower lip, giving him a soft nod. "Yeah. We're friends," you confirm, mouthing the word tentatively. Friends sound nice, and your smile grows in strength when he squeezes your hand tighter. "I'll come tomorrow. Thank you."
Tom steps nearer, and surprises you by pressing his lips to your cheek. The skin warms at his touch, and you end up with a stupid grin on your face when he steps back.
"Thanks, Y/N. You'll have a good time, I promise."
And you just about believe him.
———
You're glad that your days are filled with interviews and press junkets, because your nerves about spending the evening with Tom's family still manage to build up, even with a thousand other things on your mind to distract you. It reaches the point where Harrison offers to tag along too, just so you have someone else to cling onto if it all goes awry.
"You're being a bit ridiculous about this," Harrison mutters. You're leaning up against the counter of the desks at the bowling alley, waiting on your bowling shoes. He'd come to pick you up from your last interview, and together you'd come to meet with Tom and his family at the alley.
"I'm not being ridiculous," you reply, eyebrows arching. You kneel on the floor, your fingers nervously unpicking your laces. "I just want to make a good impression. Is that so bad?"
Harrison joins you, the ring on his finger glinting as he starts undoing the straps of his shoes. "No," he agrees, "But you really don't have to be this cut up about it. They'll love you." He glances up at you, blue eyes glinting sceptically. "Since when do you care, anyway? I thought you don't like Tom."
You release a shuddering breath, shaking your head slightly as you stare at the patterned carpet. "Tom's fine," you find yourself saying. You stand up quickly, head spinning as you grab your shoes and place them on the counter. You rest on your elbow and look back to Harrison, who's looking at you with an annoying smirk on his mouth. "What? Why are you looking at me like that?"
"You guys bought matching shoes," Harrison states it like a fact as he reaches up to poke the toe of your new shoes. "I saw the same pair on him earlier."
You bite at your lower lip, shrugging. "We went shopping together. He took some of my fashion tips." You don't like the direction the conversation is taking, so reach out to elbow Harrison. "Tom's finally recognised that I'm far more fashionable than him."
Before your friend can respond, the bowling attendant returns with your bowling shoes and the conversation is swept away, just as your new white Converse get hurried back and shoved in a cubby. Harrison changes the subject as you both slip on the squeaky bowling shoes, and then he's leading you up to the end of the bowling alley, where Tom and his family are waiting for you.
Your first impression of the complete Holland family is their volume. They are loud, even as they're split across two low, plastic bowling benches. Three either side, all six meeting in the middle with their voices clamouring together. Even as you and Harrison approach and you're spotted, the conversation simply escalates - the topic of chat seeming to be which brother can lay out the most prominent greeting. It's almost overwhelming, and Harrison seems to sense that as he's quick to reach up and give you a discreet pat on the shoulder.
"Hello, everyone," Harrison greets, exchanging a fist bump with Harry. You linger back, not entirely sure of your place within the fold until Tom's mum rises from the bench and greets you with a kiss on the cheek.
"So good to meet you, Y/N," she says warmly. "I'm Nikki, this is Dom, and that's Paddy. You've met the rest of this noisy lot, I think?" Her eyes twinkle with comfort, and you feel yourself exhale.
There's an exchange of pleasantries for a few minutes, and once you let go of the fear that Tom's parents and younger brother might have gone into the meeting with chips on their shoulders, you're able to relax. You end up gravitating towards Tom, who's stayed sitting down on the bench, his arms crossed loosely over his chest as he watches the scene unfold. Tonight he's in a black t-shirt and a chequered shirt, wrapped up in a pair of tight black jeans. Instinctively, your eyes skim around the rest of the alley, and you note the way you've already been spotted by a group of young men a few aisles down.
"Hi," you say, voice soft. Your lips spin into a smile as you meet his eyes. "We've already been recognised."
Tom's eyes lose a little of their shine, but he opens up his arms and tilts his head towards the empty spot beside him. "C'mere," he urges, and you're quick to comply.
It's easy, now, to slip into your role as Tom's girlfriend. It's almost second nature as you sit beside him and let him wrap an arm across your shoulders, and it feels normal as he kisses your temple and squeezes you closer. It feels nice.
"Hey." Harry's drifting over before you can get too comfortable, his nose scrunching up. "You guys aren't on the same team. Y/N, you're on the wrong bench."
Tom releases a deep sigh, and the vibrations rumble across you. "Harry, lay off it," he mutters.
Harry just crosses his arms over his chest, sharpening his gaze. "No. Y/N's on my team, and I want us to win. That means none of this is allowed to take place," he drags his finger between you and Tom, and you chuckle.
"Are you competitive, Harry?" You ask him, already shrugging off Tom's arm.
"Definitely."
"Good." You stand up, grinning at Tom's younger brother. "Me too."
But before you can walk away, Tom's grabbing at your hand and pulling you back, standing as he brings the back of your palm up to nudge against his lips. He meets your eyes, his gaze swirling with something indistinguishable, and your skin feels warm in each place he kisses. He's still a respectful distance, given how close you are to his family, but he kisses your cheek before whispering into your ear, "There's no chance you're winning this, Y/N. Game on." He pulls back to smirk at you mischievously, and you chuckle in response.
"Game on indeed, Thomas."
———
You're not trying to be mean, but you do think the division of the teams is slightly unfair. On Tom's side is him, Harrison, Sam and Nikki - facing off against you, Harry, Dom and Paddy. It goes well for the first few rounds, and you're keeping up evenly with Harrison, who's quite the proficient bowler, but you have a loose cannon in the way of Paddy. You'd decided to play without the guard railings lining the lane, and you sit through round after round of him tossing the bowling ball straight into the gutter.
When it reaches round eight and your team is down fifty points, you decide to offer him some pointers.
"Have you thought about twisting it- no, more like this?" You're standing up beside Paddy, staring down at the lane together. The ten pins at the end glisten beneath the fluorescent lighting, highlighted a bright, winning blue. You're itching to grab the ball from his hands and throw it yourself, but you're trying to play nice.
"More to the right?" The youngest Holland asks, looking up at you inquisitively.
"Yeah. And when you're throwing it, try to look at the pins. Keep your eyes on the prize."
"Eyes on the prize," he repeats slowly. Paddy steels himself with a deep breath, and you shoot him a reassuring smile.
"Go on, champ," you encourage, stepping aside. You can feel the eyes of the group on the two of you, and give him a wide berth as Paddy approaches the line. You watch him play around with the heavy ball, weighing up his options, and then your breath hitches as you watch him implement some of your pointers. He moves fast - arm swinging, hair flicking, and then...
Strike.
A round of cheers goes up around the benches, and Paddy turns to you, ecstatic. "Did you see you?" He boasts, face flushing with a proud grin. "Look what I just did!"
You walk over, meeting him in with a big high five as you beam. "Well done," you congratulate. Paddy runs off to his family, and Tom wanders over, next in line to take his shot. Beneath the UV light, he's glowing. The tips of his teeth gleam a weird blue as he smiles widely at you. "You see that?" You say, teasing, "That's what I call star power. My team may lose, but I take full credit for nurturing such a young talent."
Tom laughs, the sound deep and hearty, and with the hand that isn't holding a bowling ball, he reaches out and rests it your shoulder. His fingers feel warm against your shirt, and as you drift nearer to him, the comfortable scent of his cologne tickles your nose.
"Quite impressive, I have to admit," he concedes. "We're still going to beat you, though."
You shrug happily. "Whatever." You lull into the comfortable thought that you don't really care about the outcome of the match - it's just nice to be spending so much time around so many good people. "Bring your best, Holland. I'd like to see you try to win."
———
"A round of drinks for the losers, as promised."
It's with a sombre tone that you walk back to the booth, three pints of beer balanced precariously in your hands. Harry trails behind you, grasping two. As you place the large glasses down on the sticky pub table, some beer sloshes down your fingers, causing you to screw up your nose as you shake it off.
"Cheers," Sam says, voice dancing with amusement. Harry slams a glass in front of him, eyeing him hard.
"I still don't believe the machine worked right," Harry mutters. He slips into the booth beside Harrison. "There's no way you guys won with mum on your team."
Harrison scoffs. "Stop being such a sore loser!" He exclaims, poking at Harry's side. "We won fair and square. Have some grace and respect for yourself and get over it."
Harry opens his mouth as if to respond, but you reach down to give him a comforting pat on the shoulder.
"Don't worry," you assure him. "We'll get them next time."
He nods, eyes determined. "Definitely."
You realise you're still standing at the end of the table, and look to the bench on your left. With Harry, Sam and Harrison crammed there, your only option is to slip down into the booth next to Tom, who's making quick work of his pint. He quirks an eyebrow as he sees you staring, eyes shifting suggestively at the free spot beside him until you sit next to him.
As conversation picks up around the table, Tom rests an easy hand over the back of the booth, the tips of his fingers coming down to rest over your hair. Time slips by and he plays around absently with a few strands of your hair, shifting it around, fiddling with it - never hard enough to hurt, but present enough for you to feel it. In response, you rest a hand on his knee.
It's interesting to observe Tom as the night draws on. He's got several quirky characteristics to him that you'd never been aware of before. You realise he's actually quite funny - always exchanging small sarcastic quips here and there with Harry and Harrison - but he also seems to know where the line is. When the conversation grows darker and Sam opens up about something close to him, Tom leans nearer, eyes full of concern and love for his brother. He speaks in soft, warming tones that you've never heard before, and they're like assuring melodies to your heart.
It's interesting to see him show such care and consideration towards other people, because for so long, those qualities had been absent when it came to his interactions with you. You wonder if that was just because you'd been a dick towards him and he'd retaliated, or if maybe there's always been something else hanging in the air between you - the type of emotion that doesn't come out around family or friends.
As you relax by his side, Tom shows you many redeemable qualities, hidden away so close to the surface that you're surprised you'd never seen them before. Your only explanation is that before - before this trip, and truly getting to know him - you'd been too reactive to notice them. Your past conversations had been coloured very differently, and you wonder how much of your history would be different if you'd seen this version of Tom, all those years ago, at the BAFTAs. The thought irks you, and you can't help but think that you've wasted so much time fighting with him when you could've been chatting, easily like this, as friends.
"Excuse me? Hi?"
You're slightly tipsy as you look up to the side, realising you've been approached by a few people who look at you and Tom like they're fans. You've inched closer to him, with his arm wrapped around your shoulders and your side snuggled up against him. You think it must be quite convincing, how much you look like a real couple.
"Hello," Tom says, tilting his head to look at them. You can't see him, but you can almost feel the perplexed smile on his lips.
"Um, sorry, this is probably really weird. We just saw you guys and wanted to say that you're a really cute couple." The fan looks at her friend, and they giggle together. "Are you guys planning on getting married? I think it'd be, like, the best wedding ever."
Across the booth, you watch as Harry whispers something into Harrison's ear that makes them both laugh. You throw a scowl towards them before looking back to the fans, taking Tom's silence as a window for you to respond.
"Not at the moment," you tell them sweetly. "We're just seeing how it goes."
You omit to tell them that in three months, you won't even still be 'dating' Tom. You try not to think about how that fact rests uneasily in your chest.
"Aww." The friends share a few pouts. "Could we get a picture with you both?"
There are a few rounds of photographs, then you come to the group decision that it's time to pack it in and head home. You're just glad the interruption came after you'd been in the pub for a few hours and not earlier. It's always a risk being in public, but you'd assumed you'd be somewhat safe buried in the corner of a small London pub. You should've known by now that you can only remain anonymous for so long.
There's a bit of a walk to the car park, and Harry takes it upon himself to tease you.
"So, where are you guys going on your honeymoon?" He asks, imitating the fan. "How long until you have kids? You're both so sweet. Couple goals-"
"Shut up, Harry," Tom grunts. He's right beside you, your hands tangled up. You exchange an expression of frustrated amusement, and Harry barks out a laugh.
"Sorry," he mutters, sounding the opposite. "It's just funny." He looks back at you, scrunching up his nose as he realises you and Tom are holding hands. "You know there isn't anyone around out here. You don't need to pretend."
Feeling a little embarrassed by how easily and instinctively you'd reached to claim Tom's hand, you let his fingers fall away. You shiver as the dark London wind whips around you, and your hand feels cold.
You and Tom walk in sync, trailing behind Harry, Harrison and Sam. There's a silence between you that feels almost tangible - stretched tight with unspoken words and observations. Eventually, he breaks it.
"It was really nice seeing you with Paddy earlier," Tom admits. You glance to the side, noting the way his hair has fallen out of the loose gel he'd combed through it earlier. Chestnut curls frame his face - spreading out across his forehead, and you get the sudden urge to card your fingers through the strands. "He likes you."
"He's a nice boy," you reply, smiling. "Got pretty good at bowling after I helped him, too."
Tom chuckles, nodding. "You're a good teacher."
"I try." There's a soft silence again, and you nudge his arm. "Thanks for inviting me along," you say. "It's been nice getting to know everyone."
"Any time."
It's cold. It's really cold. Your hand aches - too used to the warmth of Tom to feel content hanging alone.
"It's so chilly," you voice, shivering for effect. Tom glances at you, his brown eyes glowing in the dark. "I think my fingers are going to drop off."
Tom chuckles, nodding in agreement. "Mine too." He brings up his hand, flexing his slender fingers. Halfway through the action, he pauses, suddenly gaining a distant look in his eyes. "Do you want to, uh..." He offers you the hand, quirking an eyebrow. "Just if you're cold, we could..?"
You bite your lip, keeping the smile at bay. "Okay."
Your fingers tangle together, and the moment you feel his warmth against your palm, you feel better. Tom's thumb brushes tentatively across the back of your skin, and though you've held hands on numerous occasions, this time it feels different.
It feels different because it isn't forced. You aren't holding him because you have to - you want to. And that's the kind of different that would make your head hurt if you weren't so distracted by the way his touch ignites a glowing warmth in your heart.
Your hands rest comfortably between you, and Tom leans nearer, tilting his face so he can lay a gentle kiss to your temple.
"Get warm soon, darling," he whispers, keeping his mouth near your ear. His breath against your skin makes you shiver.
Maybe it's the drink, or the cold air, or the fatigue, but there's a moment before Tom pulls back that your eyes find the slopes of his lips, and you wonder, briefly, what it'd feel like to kiss him without the eyes of the public resting on you. You wonder if it'd be different, like it is to hold hands now. Would he be gentle? How would it feel to share a kiss like that?
Your eyes flutter shut for a moment, and when you open them, he's moved away. Your heart clenches.
"Thanks, Tom."