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Subject: Tom Holland And I – 5A This story will contain sexual acts between two adult males. I am not, nor do I know the celebrities involved. I do not know their sexual preferences. If you are not of legal age, please direct yourself to another site. If you enjoy Nifty, please donate! ————————————————– Tom Holland and I – Chapter 5A ————————————————– “I’m just saying that you could’ve worn the hoodie. It was a birthday gift. From me. And, I’m here. Today. It would’ve been really… uplifting for me to have seen you in that instead of this Spider-Man travesty you have on.” “However, this is not an Iron Man film, so it would have been strange for me to be wearing an Iron Man sweatshirt.” The man next to me exhaled heavily. “Firstly, it’s a hoodie. Let’s note that important fact. There’s more fabric involved ergo it can hold more sentimental value. Secondly, Iron Man may not be the titular character but he’s IN it. So, in a way, Bashir, it IS an Iron Man movie.” I turned my attention away from him to take a plate from the chef, a perfectly made omelette resting atop it. “What about the shirt? Are you at least wearing the socks? One sock? Maybe it’s a mismatched kinda day.” “I am not currently wearing any of the clothes you gave me, Robert.” He groaned dramatically, tossing his head back in feigned frustration, following me closely. “You are almost literally killing me. We haven’t seen each other in ages and this is the treatment I’m getting?” “We have seen each other at no less than five premieres since we wrapped Ultron,” I replied, accepting some bacon as well as hash browns on my plate. “You are exaggerating.” Robert, or RDJ as some addressed him, glowered at me until I conceded. I pushed my short hair back and sighed. “I will wear the entire outfit on set. On one of your filming days.” Robert pumped his fist and gave me a friendly pat on the back. “You’re a good one, kid. Never doubted you for a second. You might have just secured your invite to every future Downey lunch.” I shook my head as Robert was pulled away, excusing himself from our conversation. “Where’s Holland? Did he get here yet?” I heard him ask. I was grateful for the reprieve. He was, of course, being his standard playful self, but I was well outside my comfort zone and already ill at ease about spending a couple hours with so many people. The event itself was as luxe as one would expect from Marvel Studios, but a Saturday brunch with the main cast, crew and production team was simply too many people for me. So many people, in fact, that we were housed within an empty filming lot. The cavernous building echoed with conversation and mirth, the smells of the catered food wafted through and light music pumped through the standing speakers around the room. I very much would have preferred being in my own apartment. However, my department supervisor had implored me to come, assuring me that the event would be modest and I was free to leave whenever I so desired. At barely nineteen, I was still new to the Marvel family, despite having worked on several projects beforehand. Predominantly consulting, very few on set. Despite being told otherwise by several colleagues, I attributed my position to quite a bit of fortuitous chance. One of my professors in college had been quite proud of my work on practical effect makeup and shared it with a friend of his who then shared it with a friend of hers who happened to have a colleague at Marvel. The entire chain of conversation had reversed and, at sixteen years old, I suddenly found myself working on project mockups and prosthetic designs for multimillion dollar films alongside my standard class assignments. My parents were extremely proud but adamant that my priority be my schoolwork, Ami was my biggest supporter and Rutger… well, Rutger asked me if I could introduce him to Scarlett Johansson. When I graduated, I had one week with my family before I was flown to L.A. to start working in person. My parents helped me secure an apartment and a car and that was that. I was reclusive, both at work and in the scope of my personal life. As a young, queer man working exclusively for a prominent film studio, I’m confident that I had the opportunities to have plenty of friends and consorts. But, what I had as far as skill, I lacked in social graces. Ever since my aptitude had started lurching me forward in school, I had been surrounded by people older and far more socially acclimated than I. Additionally, there was so much pressure for me to focus and continue excelling that I didn’t place much value in socializing. I had Ami, Rutger and, in the beginning, Oliver. Now, as an adult, I spent the vast majority of my time at home working on mockups, in the shop practicing makeup effects or on sets. I had only had one boyfriend while at school and had any degree of sexual contact with a scant three people. I sat at one of the large, round tables with a mixture of fellow makeup artists as well as some hair stylists and a duo of camera operators. Even though we generally sat together by department, people from all aspects of the industry chatted freely with one another, flitting from table to table in order to welcome newcomers or to greet someone they had worked with on a prior film. For the majority, we wouldn’t get the opportunity to congregate much when filming started. Hair and makeup always reported early and sequestered themselves away in trailers while camera crews were on set prepping equipment and lining up shots. Costuming moved at a frenzied pace, dealing with sometimes dozens of extras at once in addition to the principal cast. Electric, sound and lighting were usually barreling through carrying supplies or tools to fix whatever had gone awry. And, then there were the actors. They moved around the set accompanied by swaths of people; assistants, personal hair and makeup, dedicated wardrobe, usually an assistant director was nearby, continuity, so on and so forth. The pre-production event was likely the only time I would see any of them without a caravan. And, that’s just how I met Tom. I had returned to grab some condiments when he sidled up next to me, one plate in his hand and a second resting precariously on the same forearm. He held out his free hand. “Hello! I’m Tom! Tom Holland.” he chirped. “I play Spider-Man.” The comment was given with absolutely zero ego. He was presenting the information to me as a factual statement and an ice breaker. I glanced him over, finding him quite adorable, but shook the thought from my head almost instantly. Although informal, this was a professional setting and he was, more than likely, heterosexual. “Bashir. Makeup.” “Aw, cool! You promise to like… make me look handsome?” I chuckled slightly. His kind energy was surprisingly disarming to my guarded demeanor. “I am not high enough on the proverbial ladder to be working on you, Mr. Holland, but I will ensure my colleagues make you look your best.” “Call me Tom. And, that’s too bad, but maybe I’ll get to see you anyway! Are you on first or second crew?” “First.” He beamed and nearly dropped the balancing plate. “Nice! Well, I guess I’ll see you in Georgia! It was really nice meeting you!” I nodded politely as he took off down the table, somehow gathering another plate in his hands. My eyes couldn’t help but drop to his pert backside as he retreated. I logged the view in my mind before heading back to my own table. The brunch continued without notable incident. I didn’t interact directly with Tom again, but I occasionally spotted him moving through the tables casually speaking to any and everyone. He seemed sociable almost to a fault, something I definitely was not. I admired it. Once everyone had their fill of food, it became an even more social gathering. People pulled chairs up to neighboring tables, crowding together to talk about the upcoming project or whatnot. I, as I often did, sat comfortably alone, retrieved my tablet from my bag and started working. It wasn’t until a voice came over the speakers that I tuned back into my surroundings. Towards the front of the room, our director, Jon Watts, stood holding a microphone. “Hey, everybody! Hello! Can everyone hear me?” He paused to let everyone settle. “Well, good morning… afternoon? Anyway, welcome! Glad we’ve managed to get as many of us together as we could! Um, this is going to be very informal and I don’t want to talk too long. First, I just want to thank each and every one of you, as well as those kızılay escort who aren’t here, for coming onboard for Spider-Man: Homecoming!” A round of applause rose through the room. “It’s an absolute privilege to head up this project and I’m very excited for this iteration of Spider-Man. I really think we are going to have a great film on our hands. We have… a little over a month before we start filming and I thought this would be a good opportunity to get everyone together and enjoy some time getting to know one another. So, obviously, eat up. There’s plenty of food, there’s plenty of drink. Just get an Uber if you have too many mimosas, please. I’m sure RDJ can drive you home if need be.” Robert threw up a thumb as everyone laughed. “Now, a lot of you know each other already, but what I’d like to do is quickly pass the mic around and have everyone introduce themselves. We’ve got a lot of people, so let’s keep it to name and department. We’ll save the applause for the end, but… yeah! Name, department and… let’s get it started! If, somehow, you don’t know me at this point, I’m Jon Watts, the director.” He handed off the microphone and the chain of introductions began. RDJ, Jon Favreau, Zendaya, Tom, Jacob Batalon, producers Kevin Fiege, Victoria Alonso, writers Jonathan Goldstein, John Francis Daley, and so on. The mic moved around the room quicker than expected, circling around tables easily. Before I knew it, it was being handed to me. I stood stiffly and cleared my throat. “I am Bashir Gooden. I work in makeup.” I handed the mic back to the assistant and quickly sat down. “Now real quick, sorry to interrupt.” I felt my face flush as Robert’s voice came over the speakers. Everyone’s head turned towards his table. I wasn’t even aware that there was a second microphone, but I knew the result would be nothing short of embarrassing. “I know Jon wants to keep this moving, but I have to point something out. If you don’t know our talented Bashir, you want to get to know him.” I slid down in the chair and pulled my hood over my head as the room swiveled to looked at me. “Outside of the actors, he is the youngest person ever employed by Marvel, starting with us at sixteen years old. That alone is admirable, but it has to be pointed out that this happened because he was studying at one of the premiere arts colleges in the country starting at fourteen. FOURTEEN. I think that deserves a round of applause.” I tried to make myself as little as possible as the room smiled and clapped. I very much despised having my accomplishments put on display, even more so in such a massive public setting. Robert was, of course, well intentioned, but I was annoyed at having the spotlight on me. “He looks great in that Spider-Man hoodie, doesn’t he? It’d only be better if it was, I don’t know, an Iron Man hoodie.” His joke finally pulled the attention away from me as the crowd settled down. From across the room, I caught a glimpse of Tom craning his neck to look in my direction. As soon as our eyes met, he gave me a smile and tossed me two thumbs up. I waited for the mic to move a couple of tables away before I made my surreptitious exit. My supervisor gave me a small wave, understanding that Robert’s exposure had exhausted my social battery. I felt no qualms about leaving without any formal goodbye. Doing so was my modus operandi and people learned very quickly not to expect otherwise. The weeks flew by and, in the blink of an eye, I was in Georgia for filming. Every day became a routine of hotel breakfasts, shuttles to the set, and hours of work. I focused predominantly on extras and secondary characters. The task wasn’t intense or complex by any stretch of the imagination, just constant. Unlike stage makeup, film makeup had to be convincing while being under intense scrutiny from the camera. Unless intended, it couldn’t look like makeup. There were, however, a few scenes in the movie where my particular area of expertise would be utilized, including a scene toward the end of the film where Peter Parker struggled to free himself from under a collapsed building. The scene called for him to look battle worn as well as physically exhausted. As it was a night shot, I reported to set mid-afternoon. Upon arriving at the trailer, my department head asked me to take lead on Tom, a first for me. I acceded, heading inside to review the face charts, paying special attention to minor details. We had to be uniform across all takes, different makeup artists and days of shooting for the sake of continuity. As we filmed out of order, that was to be one of the first scenes we worked on, meaning my work would be the precedent. Tom walked in, greeting my colleague, Kellie. When he saw me, his face lit up. “Oh, hey! I’m so, so sorry, but I kind of forgot your name. I do remember that it starts with a `B’.” “Bashir,” I said. “And, it’s quite understandable. I haven’t interacted with you since the brunch.” He moved into the bathroom to wash his face. From around the corner and through the water, “Right! Nice to meet you again! I’m Tom!” “I am aware.” “I don’t want to assume!” He dried his face and plopped into the chair. Kellie put a hairband on him which kept his hair off his forehead and started applying primer to his skin as I looked over our products. “So, Bashir, where are you from?” “Seattle.” “Very cool. I’ve never been, but I hear it’s quite nice.” I nodded an affirmation over the various palettes and brushes, not one for small talk. I could see Kellie fighting back a laugh at my obvious discomfort. We had worked together previously and she knew firsthand how quiet I preferred to be. Tom, however, seemed oblivious and continued on. “Is that where you learned all of this?” “I went to school in New York.” He looked up at me as I approached. “Oh, I love New York! So much to do!” “Mm.” Kellie, with a wry grin on her face, goaded him even further. “Bashir didn’t get to go anywhere alone because he was a child in school, so he’s bitter.” I shot her an unamused look while Tom connected the dots. His eyebrows shot up. “Hey, yeah! Downey said that at the brunch, right? You were like… really young in university! How did you do that? I mean… you’ve got to be a genius or something.” I bristled at the word. “I am intelligent, yes, but I am not a genius. That word implies exceptional skill or aptitude.” Tom looked at me curiously. “I think being in university as a teenager qualifies as rather exceptional.” Kellie jumped in as I started applying foundation. “He definitely qualifies. Bashir was already making his own foam prosthetics at ten years old. His parents had to buy him a separate oven to use in the garage so he wouldn’t kill them all with the fumes.” “Foam latex is not difficult,” I said curtly. “People are afraid of it because it requires precision mixing and, if not done correctly, you’ve already spent hours working on it. The particulars themselves are not overly complex: if you allow the gelling agent to incorporate completely, you do not have to worry about the prosthetic collapsing during the baking process. Similarly, without a sufficient emulsification, you risk bubbles settling into the foam which then creates a pockmark in the final product. Which, again, you don’t find out until it’s finished baking and that could be literal hours later. In essence, if a child can comprehend the basic rules of baking, a child can grasp the fundamentals of creating a prosthetic.” Through my conversation with myself, I hadn’t realized that, not only had I stopped working, but both Kellie and Tom were staring at me in awe and amusement. I felt my cheeks get hot, so I turned around under the guise of finding a new brush. “That… is more words than I have ever heard you speak,” Tom commented, evoking a chuckle from Kellie. I sighed, suddenly self conscious. “This is only the second time we’ve spoken. That isn’t exactly a statistical accomplishment.” “He won’t talk about himself, but he’ll talk about makeup,” Kellie said sotto voce. I turned and handed her the brush. “Can you apply the foundation, please? I need to mix this red. I can already tell it’s too dark and I’d rather not waste time having to correct it.” She took the hint and got to work on Tom who, thankfully, also understood the unspoken request to move on. He refrained from asking any more questions about my personal life. Rather, he asked me about the types of makeup we were applying and how we utilized them. It was a bit like a tutorial, although I genuinely keçiören escort doubted he had any need to retain any of the information. Before too long, our work was complete. Tom looked, for lack of better words, haggard. He was pale, his eyes simultaneously puffy and sunken. The illusion was complete. For reference, Kellie snapped some photos, ensuring consistency for the coming days. Almost as soon as we finished, someone came to escort Tom to hair, then wardrobe. He thanked both Kellie and myself, adding, “I really like those socks, too!” I looked down, having forgotten that I had on a pair of black socks adorned with Mjolnir and lighting bolts. I gave him a slight tilt of the head as he left. I ended up working lead for the following days subsequently spending more time around Tom. For an introvert such as myself, I felt a little overwhelmed by his seemingly boundless energy. However, he respected my distance in our conversations by keeping it focused around work. The only times he strayed were to comment on whatever comic gear I chose to wear that day. When we moved on to different scenes and locales, there would sometimes be days where he didn’t get his makeup done in our trailer. But, if time allowed, he would come by, poke his head in, and greet us all by name. The team began to jokingly place bets on what time he would arrive. I started to find his quirks somewhat endearing; his lopsided smile, how he talked with his hands. I couldn’t help but smile every time he flawlessly transitioned from his American accent into his standard Queen’s English, usually in the midst of recollecting some story from the set or behind the scenes playfulness with Jacob, Zendaya or Laura Harrier. He would weave through the tables at craft services, speaking with everyone he passed, including us. My greeting was usually accompanied by a quick, “Nice shirt!” or “Wonder Woman! Awesome!” Tom sightings became more frequent as we moved on to interior shots. The trailers were usually within a stone’s throw of the physical buildings in which the sets were built. The setups rotated as filming progressed; while a series of scenes were being shot, the set for the next was being completed next door. Filming would move and the previous set would be taken down and replaced and so on. The ensuing activity meant high traffic on the lots which meant I usually took refuge in the vacant department trailers. I would make my way to craft services then return with my food to the temporary quiet to eat in peace. It was during one of these solitary lunches that the door creaked open unexpectedly. I casually glanced in the mirror, expecting to see perhaps Kellie or Heba, the department head. Instead, I was greeted by the face of Zendaya, or Zee as she liked to be called. “Hey, Bashir!” she greeted. “They told me you’d probably be in here.” I placed my lunch on the counter, a myriad of questions popping into my mind. “I didn’t think you were filming today,” I said, reaching for my tablet to confirm. It wasn’t probable that I had missed her name, but not entirely impossible. She shook her head. “No, I’m not. I was just getting a little stir crazy at the hotel.” That answered one question, but not the most important. “And… you came to see… me. Is there something you need?” I realized that my phrasing sounded aggressive, but I was simply confused by her presence. “I mean, is there something I can help you with?” She gave an awkward chuckle and pushed her hair out of her face. “I know, I know, I know that this is… strange and weirdly reminiscent of middle school which is hilarious considering we’re shooting a movie about high school, but I… I am doing this is as a favor and… just…” At this point, I was completely lost. I said nothing, waiting for her to accomplish whatever this favor might be. From the pocket of her jacket, she pulled out a folded piece of paper and handed it to me. “Tom asked me to give this to you.” I unfolded the paper to see a phone number scrawled across the top. My confusion multiplied. “Tom… who?” Zendaya snorted. “Tom. Tom Holland. Peter Parker, Spider-Man, your coworker.” “I… don’t… understand. Why would I need Tom’s phone number?” Her eyes squinted and she slid into the chair next to mine. “Wow. He wasn’t lying when he said you were oblivious.” I recoiled from the comment, my mind swirling. “He said I was oblivious? I… I-I’m sorry, Zee. I am very confused about what’s happening.” “Bashir.” She shook her head and smiled. “He couldn’t work up the nerve to ask you himself, hence me being here, but Tom is asking you on a date.” The words themselves made sense, but I couldn’t grasp them in that order. I stared at her for a few moments before looking down at the paper in my hand. “Tom… wants to go on a date. With me,” I said slowly. “He’s attracted to men?” “Wow, you’re supposed to be a genius. How are you struggling so hard with this?” “One: Please do not call me that. Two: Tom has never given me any indication that he was attracted to me nor even the slightest inclination that he is queer. You’ll excuse me if I find all of this a touch surprising.” “See, I told him that he has zero flirting skills,” she laughed. “He told me he was stopping by like every day hoping that you’d notice.” “I thought he was simply being friendly. He greets every person on set.” “Yeah, I told him that. He said he always comments on your nerd gear.” “My nerd… you mean… my clothes?” She nodded and I scoffed incredulously. “I may not be the most socially adept individual, but complimenting someone on their clothes is not a definitive precursor for romance.” “I told him that, too. Regardless! I have done my due diligence and… do with it what you will. Hopefully, sooner rather than later. He’s been on edge for a couple of weeks about this.” I blinked several times. “A couple of weeks? Why hasn’t he said anything?” “Pick a reason. He’s nervous. For a while, we weren’t even sure if you were gay. I had to weasel that out of Kellie as respectfully as possible. Plus, you’re… you.” “Meaning?” “Meaning you’re not exactly an easy read,” Zee supplied earnestly. “Don’t get me wrong, you’re a nice person. You’re just… kind of mechanical. Emotionally. I mean, I can’t even gauge your reaction right now. I can’t tell if you’re interested or… insulted or whatever. You’re surprised, that much is obvious, but that’s all I can see.” I couldn’t disagree with her appraisal. In fact, she was spot on and it stunned me silent. “I’m sorry if that was too personal.” “Hm? Oh, no, not at all. You’re very observant. Which is to be expected in your profession.” “Okay.” She paused before rising from the chair. “I’ve known Tom for a little while now. He won’t get… weird or anything if you don’t… accept. He just wanted to at least try. You know how the cliche goes: you miss one hundred percent of the shots you don’t take.” “Is that a sports reference?” She smiled. “I enjoy you. We should hang out sometime.” Zee said her goodbye and exited, leaving me to contemplate the piece of paper in my hand. Despite finding him physically attractive, I had never given much thought to any sort of interaction with Tom beyond work. I had always viewed him as a colleague that happened to be handsome which was not uncommon. I had worked with all of the Avengers in some capacity and found them all to be physically attractive. Now, I had the potential to be with a handsome man who happened to be my colleague. Before I could embroil myself too deeply into the complex thoughts surrounding this new information, the door opened and my team came bustling in to summon me. Our break was over and I welcomed the distraction. I slipped Tom’s number into my pocket and quickly finished the remainder of my lunch before joining everyone else. The remainder of the day whisked by quickly. The majority of our interior shots were school scenes, meaning we had a plethora of extras to prepare. Again, the work wasn’t complex, but lengthy. That night at the hotel, once showered and fed, I contemplated the situation. Tom’s number sat unfolded on my bedside table. The mostly blank piece of paper stared at me regardless of where I moved in the room. After a few hours under its gaze, I picked up my phone and dialed not Tom, but Ami. She was in the middle of preparing dinner, but made time to speak with me. I laid out my apprehensions about accepting the invitation and, even further, my social awkwardness in our potential time together. Ami, in not so escort ankara many words, told me I would be an idiot to not, at the very least, give it an attempt. On some level, I had counted on her saying as much. Ami was, amongst other things, headstrong and willful. Her personal fortitude was one of the many aspects of her that I respected and, to a degree, envied. The phone call was short, but she gave me good advice like suggesting a less committal meeting to test the waters. A coffee date, she called it. That way, if we were incompatible from the get-go, we wouldn’t have to endure an entire meal’s worth of forced company. I thanked her, took a breath and sent Tom a quick text to see if he was available. It was entirely possible that he was still on set or in his room, but already asleep. Much to my surprise and relief, he responded almost immediately. His message simply read, “Hey there! Just got back to my room. Have to shower. Can I call in 20 min?” As much as I wanted to get it over with, I accepted. Tom sent me a thumbs up emoji and I glanced at the clock, noting the time. In that twenty minutes, I wore myself out mentally trying to prepare for whatever was coming. I was still generally perplexed by Tom’s attraction to me and, therefore, unsure of how the conversation would play out. Each hypothetical scenario unfolded into more questions, leaving me more uneasy than I had begun. Then, twenty minutes later on the dot, my phone started buzzing. “Hello, Tom,” I greeted, trying my best to sound affable. “Bashir, hi!” He spoke with his usual pleasant demeanor, but I could also hear how worn down he was. “How are you?” I made a sound. “I’m as well as one can be. Yourself?” “Absolutely exhausted,” he laughed lowly. “I’m already in bed.” “Oh. I can let you go if you need to rest.” He laughed again as I silently chastised myself. Why would I say that? “You’re quite alright. I’ll be awake for a little while longer. But, if I don’t say anything for more than two minutes then you can assume I’ve passed out.” The joke brought a small smile to my face. “Noted.” There were a couple beats of silence before Tom cleared his throat. I could sense his nervousness and it matched my own. “So, um… I just want to apologize for, you know, not giving you my number myself,” he said quietly. “It was kind of… immature to ask Zee to do it and I don’t really have any sort of excuse or anything.” “I understand and you don’t owe me an apology. She is quite the efficient emissary.” “Better than I would have been, I’m sure.” The tiny moment of levity was followed by another gap of silence. Tom, once again, took the lead. “So… if you’d like to, I was thinking that perhaps we could just grab a coffee or something like that. My schedule is just insane with filming until we get to New York. I mean, I’m sure you’re busy as well.” I laughed and could hear the panic in his voice. “If you want to. I… didn’t really ask.” “I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “I’m not laughing at you. My sister actually suggested the same idea.” “I didn’t even know you had a sister.” “One sister and two brothers.” “Oh, hey! We both have three siblings! All boys on my end, though.” Just telling Tom that tiny, inconsequential fact about my personal life released a little knot of tension in me. “Are you the oldest? I feel like you’re the oldest.” “That is a little complicated. Yes and no.” “What on earth does-,” Tom’s question was cut short by a long yawn. “I am so incredibly sorry,” he sighed. I, for a moment, imagined his lean body curled under the sheets and wondered if he slept in his underwear. “Don’t apologize,” I replied, shooing the thoughts away. “You have had a long day and I’m keeping you awake.” “There’s worse reasons to be up,” he said. “You’re being generous,” I retorted, not without a tinge of amusement. “And, I think coffee would be… nice.” “Aw, yay! Okay, um… can I text you tomorrow and figure out a time? There’s a little Starbucks kiosk on the lot we can pop off to.” “That works for me. Get some sleep.” “You do the same, okay?” “I will do that.” “Okay. Goodnight!” “Goodnight, Tom.” I was reluctant to end the call. Even in that short conversation, I found myself becoming… enamored with him. Apparently, he felt the same as neither of us actually committed to hanging up. Upon realizing our stalemate, we both chuckled. “Goodnight. Again,” I said smiling. “Goodnight, Bashir! Again!” This time, I ended the call. I sat back on the bed, my mind immediately dissecting every word and nuance of our conversation. I did so until I slipped into sleep, preparing for the next chat with Tom. The simple task of finding a mutually amenable time proved harder than even I anticipated. Tom and I were almost always on opposing schedules: I was preoccupied starting in the early mornings and, when I finally had a moment to step away from the chair, he would be in the midst of filming. Even trying for a paltry fifteen minutes of shared time took us a few days to coordinate. We finally lined everything up and met up at the kiosk. Literally the moment we stepped up to order, however, my phone went off. I glanced at the screen, dismayed to see it was a call from a higher up at the studio. I attempted to stave her off as I ordered my coffee, but was tasked with sending information for another project as quickly as possible. And, of course, the information was on my laptop. Back at the trailer. I apologized profusely to Tom and demanded that I pay for the coffee since I had wasted his time. He was nothing if not understanding, batting away my apologies with a small, obviously disappointed smile. Within a week, with filming winding down in preparation for relocation to New York, we found a small window of time between Tom’s reshoots and my packing. Coffees in hand, we sat at a nearby table. Our conversation was perhaps a touch stilted and awkward, but not unenjoyable. We stuck to the basics: family, work, music we liked and so on. Tom was beguilingly curious, listening intently to every response of mine as if he were going to be tested. Before we knew it, Tom had to return to set and I had to meander back to makeup. When we reached the juncture where we would separate. I shuffled, still very awkward in his presence. Tom, on the other hand, had become exponentially more comfortable during our limited interactions. “So… I have like two days off when we get to New York and I thought, you know, if you’re free, we could maybe have a… real date? Like a dinner? Downey told me there’s a nice restaurant in the hotel we’re staying at.” “I would like that.” Tom smiled up at me. “Okay! Are you a picky eater? I can text you the link to the menu. It looks really good! Or I can just send you the name. I’m sure you could give it a Google if you wanted to look. I’m rambling, aren’t I? I should get back to set. I’ll text you later!” I nodded, amused by the way he could have an entire conversation with himself. In the next second, Tom had moved forward, wrapping his arms around me. I was slightly startled by the sudden physical contact as, up to this point, we hadn’t so much as patted one another on the shoulder. I returned the hug with my free arm, albeit a tad apprehensively. Besides my family, hugging wasn’t an act I was accustomed to. Tom seemed not to notice, or perhaps care. As quickly as the hug started, it ended and he was trotting backwards away from me. “When you look up the restaurant, tell me what you think, okay? If you don’t like it, we can find something else!” He turned and stumbled over his own foot, barely managing to hold his coffee steady as he caught himself. He peeked over his shoulder, cheeks reddened, shouted, “You saw nothing!” and continued off. True to his word, we texted that night. And, the following. And, each day until we were in New York. I enjoyed his presence, even virtually, despite the glaring dichotomy of our personalities. Tom carried every conversation, slowly melting away my reservations with his playful charm. Somewhere in that short timespan, we had started FaceTiming at the end of our nights, each of us either already in bed or on our way to it. I, admittedly, drank in the sight of him in various states of undress. He was in peak physical shape for the film, but as I had never seen him even shirtless, it was a pleasant surprise when I first got the opportunity. He had rung me while fresh out of the shower, towel around his waist, hair wet. I truly doubted that the timing was intentional as Tom could be adorably naive at times. Whether he meant to or not, the showing had piqued my sexual interest and framed Tom in a new light… ————————————————- As always, feel free to e-mail me and let me know what you think, what you would like to see or even if you just want to say thanks or ail

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