FOR LONDON [1: TOM HOLLAND]

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

So this is it. This is the moment that Maria Franco's life ends.

More specifically, she's almost certain that she's going to combust any moment now.

Because here's here.

Tom's here, right in front of her.

And god, she loves him just as much today as she did all those months ago in London. It's disconcerting - and tragic, definitely tragic -, really, just how fast her traitorous heart is beating in her chest when all he's done so far is smile at her from the other side of a window.

"Hey," She exclaims, a little too loudly, as she steps into the coffee shop where they're meeting.

"Hi," Tom responds, more a soft exhale of a sound rather than a word.

His arms are around her in an instant. She's longed for this for months.

It feels as though she's finally getting those few seconds longer with him that she'd wished for, holding onto one another outside of the airport in London, protected from the bitter weather by his warmth.

Much like then, he's the first to let go and her heart drops just a little; the reality of the situation flooding back into her.

She's hit once more with the realisation that this is what she's got: fleeting moments of what she wants, when the hum of her mind stops, that are cut short all-too-soon. Because she loves him in a terrifying all-consuming way, and he doesn't have a clue.

She can't tell him, can she?

Can't lay her thoughts and feelings — her heart — out in front of him and watch them get crushed, like fallen petals beneath the shoes of those who walk over them, ignoring the way that they were once beautiful. Can she?

It'd be pointless and painful, surely.

"So," Tom starts, wearing that wonderful, stupid, lopsided grin that suits him so well. "Tell me everything."

And he means it. Of course he does. He wants to hear anything and everything that Maria Franco will tell him and she doesn't even realise.

What a tragic pair they really are.

—

It's been two hours already, somehow.

Maria feels like she simply blinked and the time was just gone. Minutes flying by; one conversation bleeding into another seamlessly, with a healthy amount of reminiscing to go alongside it.

And then — finally — there's a lull in conversation, a steady sort of silence that settles over them as they're finishing up their drinks before they leave.

Tom lets out a breathy laugh, and reaches up to scratch the nape of his neck; a sign that he's nervous, or embarrassed, overthinking whatever he's going to say next.

"After -- uh," he begins, shaking his head gently, "After listening to your EP, I feel like I owe you some honesty about a crush of my own."

And -- oh, this wasn't how she expected this conversation to go at all.

In fact, Maria's actually immensely confused. (And quite possibly about to have her heartbroken.)

"You do?" She asks, tucking loose strands of hair behind her ears, trying not to lean forward in her seat.

"I, ah —" he cuts himself off again, cheeks growing steadily pinker and gaze unwilling to meet her's. "After that weekend in London, I kind of developed this killer crush on you for a while."

She hates the rush of hope that floods throughout her, focusing on doing her best to stamp it down and contain it to something she can ignore for now.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," he taps his fingers against the wooden top of the table while his feet do the same against the floor, creating a mismatched symphony of sound. "I don't know why I'm telling you this," Tom laughs at himself again. "It's not like a thing anymore, don't worry." Oh — "just — your songs are so intimate, I felt weird as your friend having heard them, and not told you that."

How is she supposed to respond to that?

What the hell is an acceptable thing to say, when you've been told everything you've wanted to hear scattered with everything you didn't at the same time?

"Well," She starts; she can't stay quiet for too long. Hesitating is only going to raise far too many questions and suspicions. "Consider me flattered, Thomas." Humour as a defence mechanism it is!

And then he's laughing properly, loud and bright and she is too, ignoring the way that his use of past tense has managed to make her heart sink to her stomach.

"I should hope so," He says, still rosy-cheeked and but no longer unknowingly hinting at nerves or embarrassment. "Write beautiful songs about it, Franco. I dare you." He says.

And, to be fair, she probably will. But not the types that Tom is likely thinking of.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: it's messy and the ending is abrupt and give me two weeks and I'll probably rewrite it but I wanted to get an update out bc I missed them — I hope it wasn't too awful