Bromance: a Hiddlesworth Story

Chapter 1

"You know," Elsa said to Chris, "if you and Tom fancy— experimenting— I wouldn't be opposed."

Chris attempted his sincerest approximation of shock, because it wasn't meant to be something spoken aloud— certainly not offered. It also was something beyond credibility to deny, but he felt responsibility to do so even if it didn't come off credible.

Was it something she'd been trying to find the best time to mention? Had she concluded it may well be now, while driving him to the airport, like she wanted to get it out in the open before seeing him off?

"Very funny," Chris said unconvincingly, but it was admirable far as responses went, because it was a running gag already, wasn't it, about him and Tom.

She looked deliberately over the steering wheel at traffic before attempting the excruciating left turn unto La Tijera Boulevard.

"I wouldn't blame you at all."

Chris' brow furrowed; should that have been hurtful...? Not really— because another running gag was that Tom was the sexiest man alive. Or maybe not so much a gag as casually accepted fact.

"Next time we experiment, I'll let you know," he said sarcastically.

"All the gory details?"

"Every last one."

But even if she meant it sincerely, it wasn't something to take without precaution; most disconcerting was the latent awareness that here was permission to try, and it was dangerous ground.

--

My wife thinks I should fuck you.

You don't exactly come out and say it, even to a friend you're so sickly close to you can wear his shorts without asking, or tell him he needs a shower, or let yourself into his place when he isn't home—or maybe you could say it if it weren't too true to be delivered lightly.

That was the thing, though— there was no reason to deliver it at all, because it remained unspoken and mutually agreed on between them for years. Whether they should fuck each other, that was, not whether Elsa thought they should. They'd already had each other thoroughly with their eyes, it went more profoundly than anything roughhousing said, because with roughhousing, there's an explanation.

It can be passed off as something amicable. It didn't carry unspent potential the way just looking did.

"There's no shampoo left in that bottle," Tom said, he was shaving at the sink, observing through the mirror as Chris tapped the container upside-down onto one hand in attempt to get the last bits out. Hair wet in his eyes, squinting against the stream.

"Here—" Tom reached to rinse his razor before laying it by the basin, shaving cream still covering part of his cheek; he made his way to the nearby cupboard and opened it briskly, rummaging for some time. He pulled out about five separate containers and some unidentified item he'd not remembered buying before finding the new shampoo bottle.

Chris' arm was dripping wet, getting water on Tom's shirt as he muttered, "Thanks."

And then, "That's my razor."

"Is it?" Tom asked, holding it out for closer inspection, "It's just a disposable one."

"The blade's no good, throw that one out."

There was something suffocating about what everyone thought. What everyone thought was that Chris and Tom should bang each other, and this caused irresistible pressure to silence all of that. It made you question how it affected your image as an actor, if it was good or bad, and if there was such a thing as bad publicity. It made Tom start denying everything blatantly as he could in interviews, because it was up to them to draw the line.

No, we love each other like brothers.

The walkway was narrow between the shower and the sink, Chris got him wet while stepping behind him, nudging his shoulder to move so he could get to the towels. Your wife thinks you should fuck me, there was no way to explain that without sounding daft, even if she was of the same mind as countless other women.

Chris was always too careful roughhousing with him. It's all right, mate, just hit me, Tom would say, like Chris was afraid of his own brute strength. He tugged him too delicately now, asking him to move so he could get to the cupboard, "Here's where the razors are," he said, "if you want a new one." Tom regarded the one in his hand, he tapped it at the basin and washed off the foam before putting the sheath back on.

There was barely enough room for the both of them before the sink, he watched out the corner of his eye as Chris started with the shaving cream; they caught each other's gaze in the mirror.

"Here," Chris said, he turned toward him partway and reached to shave off a bit of the foam that was left.

"Mate, fuck off," Tom laughed, but Chris held him deliberately in place, grinning, he splashed him with water.

"You can't even shave on your own," he muttered with a smile.

"I have to wait like three days at a time for my mum to come by and do it for me," Tom's voice emanated from the other room, where he'd gone to finish getting ready. It was brilliant to come film in Iceland.

To be continued...