spar :: hiddlesworth au

1

Tom showed up early his first day of lessons. He was hardly prepared for a month of self-defense classes, but his bank account was already down a couple hundred; there was no turning back. His shoes squeaked on the mat as he walked through the large doors. There, he found himself standing before an absent desk. The sight forced him to check his phone for the time. He was only sixteen minutes early.

Nimble fingers reached up to tap the silver bell on the desk. The noise it created was high pitched and unnerving. Then again, Tom was never one for loud noises. All were threatening to him. Perhaps the bell's sudden screech reminded him of his mother's voice as he knocked over a begonia filled flower pot at age eleven. It was a specific suggestion, and it was a viable one at that. Either way, the thoughts were buried deep in his unconscious mind, anxiety blocking him from such information.

Of course, a loud noise followed the bell. It was a shout and an alerting one at that.

"Hello," the male voice beamed with pent-up excitement, "you must be Hiddleston. Correct?"

Tom visibly jumped, his nervous system haywire. Blood flooded his cheeks, creating a soft pink color on that pale body. His heart hammered all the more after turning to face the source. The being in front of him did everything but calm him down.

Blue, doe eyes stared at him, intrigued. They were framed perfectly by thick eyelashes, accompanied by raised eyebrows. Long blond hair and a dark stubble was also a feast for the eyes. Tom could only imagine his fingers combing through the thick strands. Unconsciously, Tom pulled through his dirty blond, unruly hair. His fingers caught on a tangle of curls, quickly retracting.

"Uh, yes. Yes, I'm Hiddleston. Tom." The teenager folded his arms. On the second or third try, his arms folded comfortably, "Call me Tom." Please. He just wanted to hear that thick Australian accent say his name.

"Wow, you're—," the man paused, "early. You're early." He rounded the desk, gathering a clipboard and hefty packet, half of which would be left untouched. He held the items out to Tom, accompanied by a blue pen.

"My apologies."

"Oh, it's perfectly fine. Just fill out the first page and sign the second."

He took the board, gently grabbing the pen and filling in his name. He froze, skimming the first piece of paper. The new student refused to sit, for he was eager to learn. It was like his life depended on it. Two minutes and he was returning the clipboard to its owner. However, it did not leave his hands for long. Tom wrote quickly, scribbling haphazardly.

"You're a minor?"

Promptly, Tom nodded. The cartilage of his neck bobbled.

The golden god-like individual evaluated the teenager before him, but his views did not seem to change. He then flipped to the second page then, forcing it back into Tom's frozen hands.

"A parent or guardian's signature is needed to begin any session. It's a waiver type deal. If I were to hurt you, a parent must know the risks initially." The man smirked as he managed to work in vocabulary. Color Tom impressed, but he was already taken by the man's gentleness, so advanced syntax was useless.

Tom gulped.

"Not that I would hurt you. It's only standard procedure."

Tom began to regain his color, but his own thoughts drained the blood from his cheeks once again. "What if a signature is unavailable?"

"How old are you?"

"Seventeen."

The look on Tom's face sent thousands of messages. It was a look of pure horror. Thoughts were racing through Tom's head faster than he could decipher them. There was no way his stern mother would allow him to participate in such an activity. His dad was not a viable option either.

Thankfully, this man saw that look.

"How about I turn around for– let's say– thirty seconds, and you can have your parent sign it." The teacher winked, a soft smile pulling at the corner of his lips. It was remarkably kind and pink and perfect and simply everything Tom needed at that moment.

Tom was quick to understand, scribbling down a signature as the man turned.

When he returned it, he spoke softly. "I did not get your name."

The broad shoulders turned to him completely. Golden blond hair grazed his neck, and anyone would have longed to trace their fingers across the thick curls. Tom would know this, for the man was a siren that filled every moment with luring temptations.

"Chris."

After realizing he had been staring, Tom broke into a fit of awkwardness. He pushed a short lock of hair from his face and bit back a stutter. "Hopefully that will suffice. My father was never one for penmanship. It was a trait passed down."

"I promise no one will look further into it. Judging handwriting is the least of our worries. The boss man only cares about the money."

"I cannot thank you enough, Chris." Tom spoke slowly, treading on such ground softly.

"So, Tom, should we begin? Would you like– let's say– thirty seconds to prepare?"

Tom only nodded.