The Fame Game || Tom Holland

two: pour it out

Tom thinks this must be hell on earth.

Over the last two weeks, he's spent countless hours searching through his soul, trying to pinpoint anything he might've done to warrant this torture. He's found himself picking and unpicking every small action and decision that he's made in his life, only to come up blank every time. No reasoning or logical explains this situation: Tom has simply been dealt the worst hand of all, and now he's stuck with it for the next six months.

It's fair to say that he's feeling glum as he sits on the sticky backstage sofa of Jimmy Fallon's studio, being prepped to walk out onto the studio floor and proclaim his love for you in front of the world.

"Cheer up, mate. That's a cracking frown."

Not even Harrison can break through the storm clouds. Tom glances up from his phone to see his best mate staring back at him, arms crossed over his face. Harrison's eyes twinkle with amusement, which makes Tom's scowl deepen.

"She's late," Tom mutters. "She's going to fuck this whole thing up."

Harrison falls back onto the sofa beside him, and Tom slips to the side as the weight unbalances him.

"She's on her way," Harrison reasons. He reaches out and pokes Tom, hard, causing him to yelp. "You could try being a bit nicer to her, you know."

"I really do not want to do that," Tom replies. When Harrison raises an eyebrow, Tom throws his hands into the air. "What? You know that she'd only make fun of me for it." Beneath Harrison's gaze, he feels a little like a child on the receiving end of his mum's taunting glare, and it makes Tom grimace. "We just need to get through tonight, then it'll be over."

"I don't think it's going to be over for another six months."

"Five and a half," Tom corrects sharply.

Harrison rolls his eyes. His easy-going demeanour has been slipping all afternoon - the fault of Tom's childish remarks, of course - but he now looks irritated. "So, that's five and a half months of putting up with her. Would it kill you to be her friend?"

"Yes."

An expression of annoyance flashes through Harrison's icy eyes, and he stands from the sofa with a disapproving frown on his face. "Right, well seeing as you're such a ray of sunshine, I'm going to go and make some calls. See you later."

As the dressing room door slams shut behind Harrison, a short curse falls past Tom's lips. He stretches his fists towards the ceiling, groaning loudly. The dressing room is hot and stuffy, and there's a sharp line of pain jutting out against his temple that throbs persistently. He feels a little guilty, but he knows better than to follow: he's in a bad mood already, and he's sure trailing after Harrison to have yet another argument about you and your relationship would only make it worse. As much as Harrison's Tom's best mate - he's also your friend, which means Tom doesn't even have Harrison to himself anymore.

Tom's fingernails dig into his soft palms as he shakes his head angrily.

This was not his idea. Jimmy Fallon's show is perhaps the last place on earth he wants to be right now. It's early evening, and Tom's been forced here, waiting on you - who's running late, as always - so together you can conjure up some bullshit relationship timeline before walking out on the stage together, hand in hand, to lie through your teeth. You'd booked the slot as a press engagement for your latest film, but Tom's involvement was a last-minute alteration courtesy of Rebecca Thornton and the rest of your insufferable PR team.

Tom's eyes hurt too much to return to his phone, so he picks up the thick folder he'd been given by PR. It's been resting on the coffee table since he threw it away in a fit of rage, and weighs down his hands as he lazily flicks through the pages. Harrison had already hammered into him the basics, but Tom struggles to recall them even ten minutes later. The facts blur as he runs through it all again: Your full name, your birthday, and the date you and Tom supposedly became official...