ONE SHOTS & IMAGINES // BY MULTIPLE AMAZING AUTHORS

Return//Tom Hiddleston//ACEFURY

Return//Tom Hiddleston

Written by: acefury

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My POV

Home.

The place where I would run to after a stressful and frustrating day. The place where happiness was only a hot beverage away, and comfort was like a blanket and soup on a cold winter day, like iced tea under the blazing summer sun. Where the smell of cinnamon, vanilla, and brown sugar warmed my heart because it reminded me of my grandmother baking apple pies and snickerdoodles, and that reminded me of love and smiles.

Then why am I so nervous?

Maybe it's because I know that this isn't permanent. That sooner or later, I'll have to say goodbye again, and I know it'll hurt more than the last one. Because with more time comes more laughs, more smiles, more bonding, more memories. Maybe it's because my absence allowed a space to be filled, and maybe I'm not so welcome anymore. Maybe I left a trail of unbeknownst heartbreak, more than I thought I knew, and it's so irreversible that me being here will only make it worse. Or maybe I was forgotten, now just a photograph and not a person, just an image and only in the imaginary.

There are worse ways to go, I guess.

The car stops in front of my old house. Immediately, the smell of apple pie and snickerdoodles fills my nostrils, and a sea of confusion fills my head, as the source of the aroma is coming from nowhere else but here.

I feared I had left the door unlocked, and someone seized the opportunity to live here. Surely you don't need electricity to survive. And with the house fully paid for, that was very possible. Almost anywhere you could charge your cell phone and a portable charger, or, even better, have a generator. And as I left during the warmer seasons, grilling or fire pits were options. As far as the water is concerned, use the showers at the gym, if you're a member, and buy water bottles.

But as there was more shuffling as I walked to the door, I started to dismiss that idea. It didn't sound like the hurried movement of someone grabbing the essentials and trying to run out the back door. It felt more like when you hear your mother's car in the driveway and you haven't finished--or worse, started--the chores she asked you to do. I could hear the dishes being hastily put away, the oven door closing, a run to the living room, and, if I listened closely, the faint heartbeat of the person waiting inside.

Putting the copper key into the door, the tumblers are aligned, and the lock opens with ease. With a breathe of relief, I knew this was someone who I knew, or else the lock might've been changed. But still with uncertainty, my hand presses on the handle and the door swings open slowly as I walk in.

It's simply breathtaking. Small white lights lined the walls, save the walls of the hallway leading to the living room; those lights looked like ivy, cradling the side like an abandoned building; and the vines framed photographs, moments I thought had been long forgotten. The kitchen light was off, but light over the stove remained, a spotlight over a steaming apple pie and a place of hot snickerdoodles resting on the stove next to a tea kettle. As I walk further to the living room, I noticed the fire going and that it was furnished with the vintage, yet modern, furniture that I like, in the minimalist style I would use. A skylight had been installed, letting in the twilight and few faraway stars that had appeared.

And as I turn to the stairs, I saw him. My last goodbye, but my first hello. Waiting for me with the same eyes I left him with, the same ones full of hope. And instantly I felt my heart in my throat and my eyes damming with water.

I felt the suitcase and instrument case slip from my hands and easing to the floor as he stood. Goodness, I had forgotten just how tall he is compared to me. But I hadn't forgotten how warm he was and how his arms had proper places around me, like I was only for him, like we were the missing puzzle pieces of each other. And I hadn't forgotten how he used to nestle his head in my neck, curling up into me as if I was his gravity.

Just as he was doing now.

I close my eyes and take in his scent. And it's not until then that I realized I didn't want the cinnamon and vanilla, but his smell was all I wanted for the past few months. This is what home was, not the things you can do, but the people you can share with.

And maybe that's why he stayed, remnants of me behind.

"Welcome home, Ace," he whispers in my ear, holding me closer so I don't slip away.

Not again, not for a while.

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