The Fame Game || Tom Holland

five: I wanna hold your hand

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.