DROP IT DOE EYES (rps, tom/chris, 9097 words, nc-17, sort of au)

[pidgeoned]

I have no excuse for this. Actually, no, that isn't true at all. I was going to update a couple of my unfinished fics but then this happened. Inspired by this lovely conversation I had with my S.P. Meg:

What if Tom goes on exchange to Australia and like he's kind of wanting to see the outback and like I dunno maybe meeting his friends later in Adelaide or whatever but like wanting to go and find himself first and commune with nature. AND THEN HE DOES COMMUNE WITH NATURE A LOT. THE BUTTSEX KIND.

also this gif by black-nata:



Also it should be said that prior to this fic, I wasn't even sure I shipped them. SO IDK. I BLAME HIDDLES/CHEMS LOVE JUICE. for poziomeczka who is like, the love of my life.

can also be read on ao3

It was only for a couple of months.

He wanted to explore a new way of living and backpack his way through the dusty outback; he wanted to meet new people and cross out a few items off his bucket list, and if he had the time, see a play at the Sydney Opera house. He wanted to earn the gravitas often associated with well-seasoned travelers, the kind that made them age ten years and lent wisdom to their words whenever they recalled their trips abroad; more importantly, he wanted to see a real live kangaroo.

Instead, he ended up with the Hemsworths who lived in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by acres of rolling farmland and the occasional aging clapboard shack, miles away from civilization with only a dusty weathered road connecting them to the next city. It wasn’t what Tom wanted but beggars couldn’t be choosers; the trip was paid for by his school and supposed to teach him all about ‘cultural relativism’ even though half of the people enrolled in the same class were only in it for the exchange program and probably weren’t even sure what the word meant.

But at least the Hemsworths seemed like genuine good people. Craig, the patriarch, was the kind of man who drank mint juleps in the afternoon after a long day at the farm and often spoke candidly about his thoughts on certain issues like AIDS or the war in the Middle East, not realizing that some of his opinions were especially offensive to certain minority groups.

His wife, Leonie, a former school teacher, ran the household with a gentle hand. She wore summer dresses and her hair fell in long gray waves down her chest, and her face was beautifully curved, a trait her three sons inherited along with her wide full-lipped smile. The Hippie family, Tom thought secretly, because they certainly embodied that kind of lifestyle with their affinity for walking barefoot into the back garden and eating homegrown food; and because their living room smelled often like patchouli every hour of the day until eventually, even Tom’s clothes began smelling like patchouli. He could get high off this, he thought. And maybe he already was.

But oh they were terrific people, this family, with their hens clucking in the yard at six in the morning and their golden retriever sleeping on the doorstep under a patch of sun, sniffling as he dreamt.

They led a simple charming kind of life that would’ve made a great three part mini-series on the BBC because it had all the necessary workings of a successful television show: a handsome cast with minimal drama, surrounding farmland that saved location scouts the time, and horses. The Hemsworth kept horses.

Tom felt right at home. Until Chris came back from university, anyway.

And then all hell broke lose.

---

“Hi,” said Chris the morning Tom stumbled bleary-eyed into the kitchen in raggedy shorts and a t-shirt that said ‘I got this shirt from Glasgow’. Tom hadn’t been expecting him back so soon because Leonie said Chris was in university and so was not due to make an appearance until a few weeks later. But there he was, grinning stupidly, leaning his hip against the kitchen counter, drinking milk from the carton. Tom hated when people did that but Chris made it seem almost pornographic the way he did it, licking milk off his mouth and swiping his tongue over his bottom lip. It was like watching a very racy advert in slow motion.

Chris had really huge biceps too which made Tom feel vaguely alarmed and threatened. He hoped he didn’t get on Chris’ bad side because that certainly didn’t look like it would bode well for him.

“Hey,” Tom said after what seemed like ten years which it probably was. He shut his mouth with a clink. “Good morning,” he said, recovering quickly. “You must be Chris.”

Chris nodded and set the down the carton. “Tommy right?”

“Tom,” said Tom. Nobody had called him Tommy before, and upon reflection, it seemed like a shame.

“Well,” Chris said. “How do you like it here so far? Are you enjoying yourself?”

“Yes, very much, thank you,” Tom said, sitting himself down at the breakfast table. He felt lightheaded all of a sudden and wondered if it was the patchouli. He sniffed at his shirt.

“Are you all right?” said Chris, worry dappling his forehead. He looked like he wanted to laugh but was just being polite and trying hard not to.

Tom smiled. “Sorry, I just remembered something.”

“Okay,” Chris said. He set a cup down in front of Tom and poured him some pulpy orange juice from the fridge.

“Thanks,” Tom said.

“What are you doing up so early?” Chris asked as he pulled out a chair and hunkered down across from Tom. He leaned forward on his arms, his hands folded together, looking more genuinely interested in what Tom had to say than anybody Tom had ever met in his life including his grandparents.

“I was planning to go out for a jog, actually,” said Tom, thumbing the moisture beading down his glass. He took a generous sip and sighed.

“A jog?” Chris repeated, immediately brightening. “That is so weird but me too.”

“You’re going out for a jog?” Tom asked. “In that?” He raised an eyebrow at Chris whose face flushed as he shrugged. Chris was in a blue flannel shirt and faded jeans with decorative tears at the knees. Trendy but not exactly something comfortable to sweat in.

“You’re one to talk,” said Chris. “Your shirt says ’I got this shirt in Glasgow’.”

“Which is the truth,” Tom said. “I did get this in Glasgow. A friend bought it for me there.”

Chris smiled gently. “I’ll go upstairs and change.”

Tom nodded, relieved, but at the same disappointed the conversation had ended abruptly. On one hand his jaw hurt from smiling too widely, on another, his capacity to make small talk seemed to be diminishing by the millisecond and that wasn’t ideal when he wanted to leave a good impression.

Chris gave him a funny look.

“Yeah?” said Tom, somewhat alarmed as he checked his teeth for pulp.

“You’re going to jog in that?” Chris said incredulously.

“What?” And then Tom understood: Chris assumed they were going to go jogging together. Tom shot up from his seat so fast the ensuing movement rattled the table.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Chris asked.

Tom laughed nervously and smoothed down his shirt in an attempt to feign indifference. “Yeah,” he said, fooling no one. “Sure. I’m just a little...yeah. I’ll finish my drink; you go on ahead.”

When Chris disappeared up the stairs, Tom crumpled back in his seat and knocked his forehead against the table. “Idiot,” he groaned. “Idiot, idiot, idiot.” He did this a few more times until he eventually got a headache.

---

The problem was Chris was gorgeous. And Tom went to school alongside people who were equally if not more so attractive than Chris but they also happened to be peevish ill-nurtured public school boys with the sense of humor of a tea kettle and the personality of an encyclopedia, which was to say, they lost their appeal once they opened their mouths and shared their thoughts with the general public whether the public wanted them to or not.

They were not as nice as Chris, or as funny, and they did not rub Tom on the back when he was panting and heaving, trying to catch his breath after they’d double-dared each other to race uphill, a stupid idea that had seemed, at the time, a terrific one. Last one there is Tom had said, and Chris, the little cheat, sprang up and ran, sticking out his tongue at him as he leapt over a tree stump.

What an athlete, Tom thought with certain awe.

And then the sun rose fully and they sat under the shade of an old tree which branches that seemed endless.

Chris confessed, wiping sweat off his forehead against the back of his arm, “I’ve never been out of the country before, you know,”

Tom looked up. “I’ve been to certain parts of Europe,” he said. “Italy, Prague, Germany. I went to Belgium where I lost my wallet and passport.”

“That sounds horrible,” laughed Chris in sympathy.

“Yeah,” Tom agreed. “I called my mum and was just crying my eyes out, like ‘mum, oh my god mum, I will probably never see you again,’ and I was sixteen at the time and was supposed to be traveling with my friend who was a bit older but she went off with this guy she met on the train and...” Tom trailed off. It had been a good memory, but one he didn’t wish to relive again. He’d been a kid then and stupid. Then again, it wasn’t like a lot had changed.

“I would love that though,” said Chris.

“Trust me, losing your wallet and passport is not an enjoyable experience,” Tom told him.

“No, no,” grinned Chris. “I meant, I would love to travel and do stupid things.”

“Losing your wallet and passport is stupid,” Tom agreed.

“But it makes a good story to tell people,” said Chris, raising both his eyebrows.

Tom pressed his lips together, trying not to smile. He rolled his eyes. “I suppose you do have a point,” he sighed, laying down on the grass with his arms folded behind his head.

Chris watched him for a second then looked away, rubbing his thigh absently. “My mum’s probably making breakfast right now,” he murmured.

“She makes terrific pancakes,” said Tom amicably. “Very soft and buttery but crispy around the edges. I’m rather in love with them, you know.”

Chris grinned. “Is that so? You should try mine,” he said. “I taught her how to make them.”

Tom grinned back. “Right,” he said. “I don’t doubt that for a second.”

“You shouldn’t,” Chris said and reaching over to him, flicked a springy curl of hair from his forehead.

Tom released a shuddery sigh and smiled nervously.

“Let’s get breakfast,” Chris said. His smile was blindingly white.

---

The way Tom saw it was: he was going to keep making awkward passes at Chris until he got bored or Chris got bored or at least called him out on it. Or when the weird attraction died down and he could rein in his urges.

He didn’t want to be the guy who mistook being friendly for flirting, but sometimes it became especially hard to tell. Was Chris just being polite? Was this how farm boys in the outback were raised? Did they always put their arms round your shoulders and patted your back?

Life was not cake. Tom had known this for a long time, was taught it in primary school, ingrained into him well throughout his formative years. If anything, life was a series of spirit-crushing events that tested your fortitude and strength of character. Woody Allen said that life was divided into the horrible and the miserable. The horrible were the terminal cases: the blind and the crippled. The miserable was everyone else. You should feel thankful if you fit into the last category.

And Tom was grateful but he didn’t want the misery. Just this once, he thought. Let me have this. Tom couldn’t help but grasp onto that tiny sliver of hope that whispered to him at night while he rutted against the starched patchouli-scented sheets, aching in his trousers: maybe, just maybe, if you wear a tight enough shirt, if you told him about that one time in speech choir with Hansel. Maybe, he thought. It was the possibilities that tortured him.

In the off chance that something did happen between them, which was highly unlikely, Tom could shrug it off as one of those things that was inevitable when one found himself in an unfamiliar land: like eating raw meat or using the wrong verbs or growing a mustache; it wasn’t like they were going to see each other again and one fuck did not a summer make.

So Chris invaded his thoughts and Tom allowed it, day in and day out. It didn’t help that Chris, as Tom saw him in the next few days, stopped wearing a shirt as the temperature began turning for the summer and he started helping out at the farm.

Life, Tom thought, tearing into an apple with his teeth, was not a BBC series but softcore pornography.

---

Every once in awhile Tom helped out with the laundry, folding sheets in the den as he sat directly in front of the rickety fan, curls bouncing in the breeze, sweat drying from the stem of his neck. It was the least he could do to to repay the Hemsworths for their kindness.

Tom liked how the activity required minimal concentration and how, eventually, the repetitive movement became kind of relaxing. He set the sheets in mountainous piles here and there until there was nowhere else left to sit.

Leonie was one of those people who hung the laundry in a washing line instead of putting them willy-nilly in the dryer which made the sheets smell like a curious combination of warm sun and washing detergent. The patchouli-smell must come later, thought Tom, as he smoothed out the creases with his hands and lifted the sheets to his face.

Chris walked in a few minutes later with a can of beer and thankfully, a shirt on, although this one had torn off sleeves and looked a little threadbare. There was a hint of nipple if you were patient enough to squint your eyes.

Chris watched Tom for awhile, arranging the piles by color, and then later, by size, pointedly ignoring him.

“You fold really nicely,” said Chris after awhile.

Tom laughed. “I’m not sure whether to feel flattered or insulted.”

Chris laughed too. He had a nice laugh, Chris. It sounded really genuine. “I could never do it like that. I always get them bunched up in the middle. It’s terrible.”

“I could imagine,” Tom said, and smiled. He finished, and then, not quite sure what to do next, sat with his hands in his lap and his eyebrows raised at Chris who shrugged back at him.

“So,” said Tom conversationally. “How were the horses today?”

“Fine, thank you for asking,” Chris grinned. He chewed on his lip and slurped his beer, belching for a second and then propping his feet on the coffee table, crossing them at the ankles.

“Would you like a beer?” said Chris. Then before Tom could respond, added, “Later, I mean.”

Tom blinked, confused.

“I mean, after dinner or whatever,” Chris said, looking a little embarrassed. He even put his feet down and rubbed the back of his neck, glancing down at the floor and back up again, hair tangled in his eyes. He pushed that back behind one ear.

“There’s a place you can get beer here?” said Tom, incredulous. “I thought it was all farm. And cattle.”

“Well, that,” laughed Chris, “And I want to show you something.”

Tom made a face, pretending to mull it over. “So are you asking me out for drinks?”

Chris smiled slowly. He should stop doing that, Tom thought; his smile could thaw snow drifts. It was just unfair. “Is that a yes? Liam and I were just talking about--”

“Liam,” sighed Tom. Of course. What the hell was he even thinking? Of course Chris was asking him out as a friend. He tried not to let his disappointment show.

“I’d like a beer, actually,” Tom said, shrugging, attempting to play it cool. “Maybe six.”

Chris snorted. “Six!”

“I might even need more than six actually,” said Tom glumly.

“Terrific,” Chris said, reaching over to rub him amiably on the shoulder, touch heavy, hot, things a friend’s touch should not be.

“Yeah,” Tom said, moving away. “Just terrific.”

---

The bar, it turned out, was a forty five minute drive from the farm. They took Chris’ Ford pickup, this creaky old thing from 1987 with paint peeling off the fenders, and drove through dusty terrain that made the truck lurch up and down through pothole after pothole.

“Breeding grounds for rattle snakes,” said Liam unhelpfully, leaning over from the back seat to chuckle into Tom’s ear. Tom tilted his head away, rubbed furiously at his ear. Wrong brother he thought, and suddenly wished he were back home in London, dancing to the Prodigy to blow off some steam. It’d be morning there, he thought; he’d be asleep in his bed which did not smell of patchouli.

Finally, they arrived, and Chris drove into the back lot which faced a grove of trees. Tom expected Liam to offer him unsolicited trivia about the place but surprisingly, he left Tom alone, reaching into his back pocket for his cellphone as he picked up a call.

Chris grinned at him when he caught Tom’s eye. “He’s meeting his girlfriend here,” he said.

“Isn’t he sixteen,” asked Tom. “Is he even allowed near a bar?”

“Does he honestly look sixteen to you?” Chris said, pocketing his keys. “You’re in Australia, mate. We play differently here.” He grinned and breached the distance, swinging an arm around Tom’s shoulders and squeezing his arm.

“This will be so much fun,” Chris said, squeezing harder.

Tom sure hoped so. Looking at the bar, however, did not give him much hope.

---

It was filled with, for a lack of a better way to phrase it, people who probably spent a lot of time on farms. Cultural relativism, Tom thought, and tried to relax. The tables were filled with middle aged men who looked like regulars, these guys who would rather not have dinner at home, nursing large mugs of frothy beers and eating cheese-coated chips from a plastic basket.

Their heads swiveled in Tom’s direction as soon as he entered. Half of it was probably his imagination but he didn’t want to take chances. He scanned the place for exits. There was one, just a few feet away from the jukebox. Perfect, thought Tom. He was a fast runner when the time called for it.

Chris led them to a booth in the back, waving at the redheaded lady behind the counter. “Lisa!” he called out.

Lisa rolled her eyes but smiled discreetly. She was a pretty woman, with a round face and a small red mouth, and large doe-brown eyes. She ambled over to them after wiping the last of the shot glasses, heels clicking rhythmically against the floor.

“You look new,” she said, eyeing Tom with interest. “So what are we having tonight boys?” She uncapped her pen with her teeth.

Chris slid the menu from Tom’s fingers. “We’ll be having the house special. And a couple of pints, please.”

“Nothing else?”

She looked at Tom again, chewing on the cap of her pen.

“Nope,” grinned Chris.

Lisa nodded, smiled, and tore off a page from her little notebook before walking back to the counter to yell their orders.

Tom chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment, letting the comforting tones of Kylie Monogue waft over him. He hummed along.

“This is...nice,” he said after a shifty pause.

“You don’t like it,” said Chris, frowning.

“No, no, I mean,” Tom said, leaning forward on the table, “It’s very... interesting. I really like the vinyl seats and the records on the wall are a very nice touch.”

Chris guffawed. “You don’t have to lie! Stop being polite.”

“No, I do like it,” Tom insisted. “I do.”

He surveyed the rest of the room: in a corner was a pool table where a handful of women in their late twenties had crowded around. Next to the jukebox was a couple -- a man and a woman both in flannel -- locked in an embrace, swaying to the music. But otherwise nothing else was going on. The room smelled a little like roasted pork.

“It’s wonderful,” Tom said , because he really wanted to mean it. He’d done nothing in the last three weeks but watch Liam and Luke carry around bales of hay to feed to the horses, gather eggs from the coop at five in the morning when the chickens were at the height of frenzy, and engage in what the family liked to call “Pig Wrestling” which involved partial nudity and a spurting hose.

This was supposedly the most stimulating activity he’d been engaged in in a long time, not counting the odd nights he might rub one out and move the bed five inches from the wall as a result, but instead of feeling relieved, Tom felt frustratingly disappointed.

Perhaps there was some truth to the old adage that love caused tension that only sex could alleviate.

Chris said, “Wait till the house special gets here.”

Tom wanted to weep openly. He wanted to leave and get on the next plane home. Mostly, he wanted to reach over and wrench the smile off Chris’ face. With his mouth. Or cock. Or his mouth and cock in turns.

The ‘house special’ arrived after a few minutes and it was with a great deal of trepidation that Tom picked a chicken wing from the basket. Don’t get your hopes up, he told himself, but then he took a small bite and flavor exploded in his mouth like an orgasm of spices.

“Oh god,” said Tom, scarfing down the next one, “This is the best thing I’ve ever had in my life!”

Chris laughed at him and sipped quietly at his beer.

There was more beer after that that Tom lost count of and soon they were drinking shots at the bar, daring each other to go further. Tom swayed a little on his fourth, maybe sixth tequila shot and bumped into Chris a little whom he didn’t remember to be standing so close.

Chris smelled like sandalwood; his skin was really warm.

Winding an arm around Tom’s shoulders, Chris eased him back into his stool. Tom clutched his head and leant his cheek against the polished wood which felt cool against his face, like ice. His head was starting to hurt, but Chris. Chris’ hand rubbing him between his shoulder blades felt good and a low moan of pleasure escaped him unbidden.

Tom was on the verge of saying something when he heard the unmistakable opening riff of a Bob Dylan song on the jukebox.

“Oh my god,” gasped Tom, taking a glorious swig from Chris’ mug as he rose. “This is my song!”

“What?” said Chris, looking faintly alarmed as Tom began sweeping his arms about. “Come gather ‘round people wherever you roam, and admit that the waters around you have grown...”

He took another swig and slurred the next few lines, finishing with, “I love everyone in this bar!”

Tom sat back, grinned, and nearly slid off the stool.

Chris caught him by the arm and steadied him, hands curled around Tom’s biceps, his breath in Tom’s face.

“You have nice eyes,” said Tom, and then drooped forward with his face slumped into Chris’ neck. He was asleep within seconds.

---

Tom woke an hour later, still groggy, in the backseat of Chris’ pickup. The darkness was a welcome reprieve from the bar’s bright flashing lights. When Tom peered out the window, sitting up gingerly, he found they haven’t really left the bar yet but were in fact still parked.

Chris turned from the driver seat, watching him like a hawk. “Are you all right?”

No, Tom thought, dropping his head gently back into his hands. “I need to use the bathroom,” he said, stumbling out of the door and onto his knees on the gravel. That hurt a little but then Chris was yanking him up to his full height and that somehow made him forget the pain because suddenly he felt sick to his stomach instead.

Tom said, “I might only do one of two things if we’re lucky,” and pressed his lips together tightly to keep everything in.

Chris pushed his face into Tom’s line of vision. “Wait,” he said, “I can walk you to the bathroom, it’s not that far.”

Tom shot him a miserable look. “Chris,” he said, and then felt the bile rise in his throat.

He threw up on Chris’ nice shoes.

---

As far as terrible nights went, this was just a six on the Richter scale of terrible nights.

Tom has had worse.

When he was sixteen, the summer he also lost his wallet and passport in Belgium, a bad age to be, it seemed, he played rugby with these guys who went to the school his mum taught at, older guys who seemed cool at first because they came from old money and attended university but then they let him go through this whole initiation malarkey just to be part of their little posse, and he had to streak down the road wearing a gas mask over his head and socks over his hands, and it was, quite possibly, the strangest experience of his short life, not counting that time he tried putting the wrong end of a carrot up his bum when he was twelve.

The night had ended badly; he skidded on the slippery road and went careening into a bush when he turned the corner. The guys hid his clothes and left him there, sixteen and shivery and very confused, and Tom had to ask to use a stranger’s phone to call his mum to pick him up.

Still though, Tom was nineteen, and he thought he knew better. Apparently he did not.

“Chris,” he moaned, pressing a hand over his forehead. “I am terribly sorry. Your shoes. Oh my god. I--”

And then the roil of discomfort returned in a sweeping surge and he was throwing up again, one hand braced against the wall. Chris was able to leap away this time, and watch, with a grim face, as Tom heaved the contents of his stomach onto the ground with a loud splat! It looked like a massacre.

Tom felt sick again just looking at it though he did his level best to compose himself.

“I think I’m about to die,” said Tom and Chris laughed, not helping the situation any. With soggy shoes he walked over to Tom and palmed his back in soothing strokes. Tom felt the sweat of Chris’ hand stick to his shirt though that could’ve just as easily been his imagination.

“It’s all right,” Chris assured him, stroking, oh god above, his hair too. “Do you think you can walk back to the truck?” he asked after a second.

Tom shook his head.

Chris, because he was a complete arse, laughed again. “I’ll count to to three,” he said, hooking both his arms underneath Tom’s. “One,” he began. “Two,”

Tom was not ready for three and was forcibly hauled backwards to the truck -- they made a silly picture, he was sure, him most especially -- the heels of his shoes scraping the weatherbeaten ground.

Something in the trees hooted -- an owl, probably, or a creature endemic to these parts with huge teeth and the devil’s eyes, waiting for the perfect moment to attack visiting Londoners -- and then there was a flurry of movement in the bushes which stopped as soon as it began.

Tom said, “I’m fairly certain something is about to kill us,” but Chris said nothing and simply braced him against the side of the truck, chest hot and sticky with sweat against Tom’s back as he opened the backseat with his other hand. He nudged Tom inside, and Tom clambered up slowly, making sure not to jostle the contents of his stomach. He felt like vomiting again; he felt delirious from all the touching.

Chris patted his knee in sympathy once he was seated, head lolled to one side, staring at Chris through slitted eyes.

Tom groaned in embarrassment, realizing what he’d just done. “I just ruined your shoes,” he said mournfully. “Of all the idiotic things I could do tonight; I had to spew vomit all over your shoes.

“I can always get them washed,” Chris grinned, patting him again. “They’re just shoes,Tom.”

Tom closed his eyes, smiling at a memory. “Remember,” he said sleepily. “Remember the first time we met, and you called me Tommy?”

“Yeap,” said Chris, leaning against the truck with the door still open to let the fresh air in.

“That was really funny, I thought,” Tom said, cracking one eye open. “And a little cute.”

“Cute?” Chris repeated, gaze wide.But his surprise softened into something else and he touched the back of his head to the side of the truck, gazing up at something in the sky. His gaze fell back to Tom who felt something bubble up in his throat once more -- not vomit, thankfully but something he could not identify.

Tom wrinkled his nose. “Ugh, my head.”

Chris laughed, a loud untempered roar. “We’ll get you sorted out in a bit, I promise; We’re just waiting for Liam. He won’t be long. He just went out for a walk with his girlfriend.”

“A walk,” Tom said. “Pfft. Who goes out for walks at six in the morning?”

“Actually,” said Chris, jabbing him in the knee, thumb rubbing a path of warmth that made Tom shift in his seat a little. “It’s only two in the morning and I trust my brother enough to believe he really is just out for a walk.”

“He’s sixteen,” Tom said, remembering himself all of a sudden, sixteen too and hiding in that prickly bush, wishing somebody would come round to help him out. He pulled his hands in his lap and pressed his knees together as Chris absently stroked his thigh.

“You know what that age is like,” Tom whispered with a tremulous breath.

Chris shrugged and abruptly let go of his knee. His face lit up. “Oh there he is,” he said.

---

The second time Tom woke he was in bed and someone was staring down at him in the dark. He’d have shoved that someone off and kicked them squarely in the groin had they not have been Chris whose eyes seemed weirdly luminous in the dark, like an owl’s, although that could’ve just been the light from outside slanting down his face.

He was breathing down Tom’s neck and murmuring his name. “Tom,” he said, shaking him slightly.

Tom made an unintelligible noise and held onto him. “Tom, you can let go of me now.”

Tom blinked. “Oh,” he said. That flat oh of disappointment that now punctuated his daily existence at least when dreams of Chris were concerned. He loosened his grip from Chris’ shoulders and was about to sit up when Chris pushed him back down again.

“You don’t have to get up,” said Chris, laughing so softly his breath sent the hairs on the back of Tom’s neck curling in delight. Chris eased Tom’s shoe off his left foot then did the same to the other one. And then, because he was kind and rather shameless about it, threw in a pat on the leg in there as well, a gentle rub as if to say: goodnight, buddy; you’re all right.

“Wait,” said Tom, hand shooting up in the dark.

Chris stopped at the door, one eyebrow raised.

There was a long pause before Tom said, without breathing, “Pass me that blanket on the chair.”

“Oh,” said Chris and grinned, eyes crinkling in the corners. He threw the blanket over Tom, slowly and carefully, pulling the corners up to Tom’s chest as he leaned over him, staring intently at something he saw on Tom’s face. Dirt, probably, thought Tom with a grimace. Or that cut he made shaving this morning.

Tom shifted under the blankets and Chris stepped back, hands on his hips, looking awkward. “I guess I should leave,” he said.

“No,” murmured Tom under his breath.

“What?” said Chris.

“I said good night,” Tom told him, faking a smile. It was horrible.

“Good night,” said Chris after a moment and left.

---

The next morning, Tom did his best to avoid Chris, certain he’d embarrassed himself the night before and done things he would prefer not to recall. He remembered throwing up on Chris’ shoes and snatches of the ride home during which he slept in fits, bumping his head now and again against the window whenever Chris drove over a pothole.

Avoiding Chris turned out to be easy when the farm seemed to be in need of an extra pair of hands that day. Tom stuck to Luke, who, being the oldest of the three boys, had less grunt work to do and more book-keeping. He was mostly involved in accounting and had Tom check and double-check the entries in his books.

“Done,” said Tom, putting down his green plastic calculator.

“Great work, Tom!” Luke clapped him on the back before dismissing him. With nothing else to do, Tom wandered around with his headphones on, toting his shoes over his shoulder as he waded bare foot through the grass.

The sun was just setting and he could smell what was cooking for dinner: mushrooms and something buttery. It made his mouth water a little to be thinking about it.

And then he bumped into Chris who had a hose in one hand and was washing his truck.

Tom slid off his headphones immediately.

“Oh, hey!” said Chris brightly, turning. “I thought I’d never get to see you today. You weren’t there at breakfast.”

“Yeah,” said Tom, eyes glued to where Chris’ wet shirt was stuck to his stomach. “I had the world’s worst headache.”

Chris smiled. He had floppy sandals on and cargo shorts that had slipped all the way down to his ass so that Tom could see the flannel waist of his boxers. Black or dark blue, Tom couldn’t really tell but they hugged his ass nicely.

“Wanna lend me a hand or...”

“Sure,” Tom replied without thinking, setting his mp3 player aside and his shoes. Chris handed him a sponge and he began lathering up the windshield, watching Chris work on the windows from the corner of his eye, muscles flexing.

“Hey Tom,” said Chris a few minutes later.

Tom turned. “Yeah,” he said and then Chris turned on the hose. Tom flailed his arms like a manic turkey and tossed the sponge at Chris’ head. He didn’t get to see if it connected because jets of water were being sprayed at him, and then Chris was moving closer and Tom felt like he was actually drowning, swallowing mouthfuls of water as he halfheartedly swatted at Chris. And then Chris dropped the hose on the ground, grinning, and Tom realized with a start that they were now both drenched.

Chris came closer, slipping off his shirt and tossing it over to one side. It was like watching very quality porn, thought Tom, in that Chris’ abs were nicely lit and he seemed more accessible than any of the writhing sweaty bodies on the screen. And he kept getting closer and closer until finally they were standing with their faces aligned, Chris’ hand resting tentatively on Tom’s shoulder.

“Tom,” Chris whispered, voice an earthy rumble.

“Chris,” said Tom, sucking in a breath.

Chris gave a mighty bellow before wrestling him to the ground. Tom struggled at first before he realized what was the point and just let Chris manhandle him into the earth. It felt quite good actually, Chris’ hands on him, under his shirt, his laughter a deep treble in Tom’s ear.

Chris rolled off him a second later, panting for breath.

“You’re not even trying,” he said petulantly.

“Why fight when I can just sit back and wait for you to get bored,” teased Tom. He lay on his side, pillowing his head on his arm and Chris did the same so that they faced each other.

Tom tried to keep his gaze steady on Chris’ face but couldn’t help sneaking looks at his chest every few seconds.

“You keep looking at my--” Chris said, and then understanding dawned on him and he laughed.

Tom groaned, face flushing. “No, I hadn’t been looking. You just always do not have a shirt on every time I see you,” he babbled. “And I was wondering: how does he even get abs like that. I don’t look half as good without my shirt on. I offend people with my shirtlessness.”

Chris snorted. “I’m sure that’s not true,” he said. His eyes twinkled a second later and Tom didn’t like the look that suddenly spread across his face.

“Take your shirt off,” said Chris all of a sudden, the way people would say, I think you should choose chartreuse drapes for the living room. Casual and without a hint of malice. It took Tom so off guard that he laughed really loudly and really awkwardly until Chris gave him a serious look.

“Chris,” said Tom because he was not going to let this turn into wank fodder. “Chris, come on.”

He wasn’t really sure what he was saying at that point; he just didn’t want to do it. It was bad enough that Chris was shirtless and leaning over him, looking like something carved out of marble, bronzed and perfect and

Chris had straddled his hips.

“Up,” he said, making an impatient gesture.

Tom raised an eyebrow.

“Up,” Chris repeated, again with the gesture. Tom swallowed thickly as Chris hooked his fingers under the hem of his t-shirt and lifted it gently over his chest, inch by painful inch. Tom felt his cock stir in appreciation, skin pebbling with goosebumps.

Chris stopped when Tom’s arms were effectively trapped in the shirt, pinning Tom’s wrists above his head with one hand. He didn’t even have to, really; Tom would’ve done it willingly the way Chris was staring at him, pupils blown, breath slightly heightened, like he wanted to just eat Tom up.

Chris let his gaze wander down, nostrils flaring as he took in a sharp breath. Nothing really interesting down there, Tom thought, suddenly self-conscious, but then Chris touched two fingers to the dip in his belly and traced a path up his ribs.

Tom felt the scratch of Chris’ blunt fingernails catch on his skin and gasped.

Chris laughed softly. Then he dipped his head to Tom’s navel and let his tongue trace a line up his chest.

Tom arched his back just as Chris stopped abruptly, lifting his head.

“Is this okay?” he asked, as if that wasn’t Tom’s cock digging painfully into his thigh.

Tom nodded. “Chris,” he moaned, voice strangled, then bucked his hips twice. The friction was delicious.

Chris pressed his tongue flat against Tom’s left nipple before closing his mouth around it with a gentle suction. Tom’s entire body spasmed in pleasure from that single point of contact, his eyes rolling back in their sockets as he gurgled and clawed at the grass, skin tingling like it was attached to a livewire.

It seemed almost impossible to believe this were happening but then Chris kept working at his nipple, gently laving it with his tongue and blowing on it before moving onto the other one, breath moist, mouth wet, humming in his throat as he kept his free hand pressed to Tom’s stomach to stop him from lunging forward and getting overexcited. It was really happening, Tom thought with manic glee.

Chris continued to lick Tom from his breastbone all the way down to his navel where Chris rested his chin and pressed a stubbly kiss to the soft tuft of hair disappearing down the waist of Tom’s shorts. He surfaced a moment later then slid off Tom in one smooth movement, absentmindedly chewing on a corner of his lip as he sat up and leant back on his palms.

Tom blinked and, shuffling a little to the left, pulled his shirt back down again. He sat up slowly and scratched his head. He felt like bursting into tears all of a sudden. He was this close to coming in his pants.

“Um,” said Tom eloquently. “That was... You stopped.” He fixed Chris with a glare then felt stupid and just shook his head. “Forget I said that.”

Chris laughed at him. “We’re outside,” he reminded Tom, flushing, pawing at his neck in embarrassment. “My parents could see us. Maybe later,” he sniffed, sneaking Tom a hopeful look.

Tom rubbed idly at his chest. “This is a bizarre conversation,” he admitted. But even more bizarre was the fact that Chris had just licked him, he thought. “By later do you mean...”

“Yeah,” interrupted Chris, face even redder than before. “I mean if you...”

“No,” Tom said, red too. “I mean, yes, definitely.”

He smiled at Chris stiffly. “Chris,” he said right before Chris leaned over to kiss him on the lips. It was quick; no tongue. Chris curled his hand on Tom’s knee and Tom got a fleeting taste of mint bubblegum. When he exhaled, Chris parted his lips.

Chris pulled away first much too soon; he was quiet and then stood up to gather his shirt where he had tossed it on the ground. Slipping it back on, he ambled over to Tom and yanked him up to his feet.

Tom felt a little dizzy but he grinned anyway. This was shaping up to be a very good cultural experience, he thought and bumped his shoulder into Chris’.

Just then the screen door banged open behind them.

Liam poked his head out before they could leap apart simultaneously. “Hey you two!” He waved. “Dinner’s ready!”

---

Tom showered after breakfast because there wasn’t much he could do prior to waiting for Chris. He was so nervous his hands shook. He hadn’t been this nervous since his mum announced she was divorcing his father, though this time, it was a good kind of nervous, the butterflies-in-his-stomach kind. He sat at the edge of the bed for a long time, drying his hair with a bath towel until it got frizzy and tangled and his curls stood in weird electric puffs around his head.

There was a knock at the door. Tom shot up from his seat, checked his reflection in the dresser mirror, unbuttoned the first three buttons of his shirt before buttoning them up again, then strolled as casually as he could to the door.

Chris grinned at him as he leaned against the doorway, his arms crossed, his eyebrows raised.

“Hey,” said Chris.

“Hi,” Tom beamed. Chris only had jeans on and a white v-neck shirt but it was nice. It looked good on him. He looked good.

“You look good,” Tom said, before he could stop himself.

Chris’ grin grew. “I want to show you something,” he said.

---

Chris led the way, beaming a flashlight into the darkness, to the old white-and-blue clapboard shack that stood atop the hill. Tom had never been inside because none of the other Hemsworth boys thought it would be of interest to him. The climb was hard going because of the dark, and Tom had already worked himself up a sweat.

“Close your eyes,” said Chris.

Tom, sighing theatrically, pressed his hands over his face. “They’re shut now,” he said. He heard Chris fumble around for a few moments. There was a thump, then a click, then Chris’ voice swam near him once more as he said, “You can open them now.”

Chris pried Tom’s fingers from his face slowly and squeezed his hands before stepping away.

The inside of the shack was nothing to gawk at, though white Christmas lights hung from the walls and glowed intermittently. On the ground was a picnic blanket and a six pack of beer. There was a rickety transistor radio on the work bench that played a staticky jazz riff Tom couldn’t recognize because it was too soft.

“You are such a...” Tom floundered for a second. “There’s not even a word for what you are!”

Chris turned wine red, his attractive way of blushing.

“What am I looking at exactly,” said Tom.

Chris shrugged. “I don’t even know why I did this. Now I feel stupid.”

“No, no,” Tom said, grabbing his arm and leading him to the picnic blanket. “Don’t say that. This is lovey. This is great. This... You’re amazing, seriously. You are!”

Chris sniffled, swiping his tongue over a corner of his lip. They were quiet all of a sudden until Chris surged forward and grabbed Tom by the back of the head and kissed him.

They were kissing. The gentle pressure of Chris’ tongue on him, his mouth, made Tom want to disappear inside himself. He curved his hands around Chris’ waist and stumbled backwards until he realized Chris was walking him to the blanket.

“So soon?” he teased. “What about the--”

Chris didn’t let him finish and slipped his tongue inside Tom’s mouth.

---

Tom hadn’t really expected any of this to happen. He’d been acutely aware that Chris liked him, maybe not so much in the way Tom would’ve wanted, but enough that Tom felt there was a sliver of attraction simmering just beneath the surface.

But then he chalked it up to Chris’ inherently friendly nature. The guy hummed while working and smiled at everybody and threw his arm around people’s shoulders when they said something funny, which meant all the accidental touching might not have been as exclusive to Tom as he’d initially believed.

But here they were, on a picnic blanket, Chris comfortably wedged between Tom’s spread legs, his arms braced on either side of Tom’s face as they kissed lazily. With tongues. But with clothes on. And minimal groping. It was nice though. Chris carded his fingers through Tom’s curls and kissed the side of his neck, then his throat, before moving up again to curl his tongue over Tom’s top lip.

Tom could feel himself getting hard but he didn’t want to stop kissing Chris, even if that meant he had to wait a long time for there to be any below-the-belt activity. He kept his hands sweeping up and down Chris’ broad back, resting his palm against the swell of his ass, kneading slightly, then slid his fingers into Chris’s back pocket and pulled out a familiar square tin foil.

“Right,” said Tom, holding the packaging up to Chris’ face.

Chris drew back a little but didn’t pull away completely, the movement an exquisite rub against Tom’s cock.

“Um,” Chris said. “Safe sex?”

Tom wanted to kiss him for that so he did.

---

This was a dream, thought Tom. Nothing more than an impossibly filthy fantasy his mind had conjured up so that he could cope with his debilitating attraction to Chris.

Chris breathed down on him, lips parted, as he slid off Tom’s pants with a purposeful tug. Next came his boxers which Tom kicked off to the side as he made himself comfortable on the blanket. Chris still had his pants on though he’d lost his shirt some time in the last half hour. He leaned over Tom, uncapping the tube of lube and smearing his fingers with it so that they shone slippery with sheen.

Tom wanted to die. And then Chris’ hand closed around him and he forgot about wanting to die and thought instead of wanting Chris’ fingers around him all the time, working him up until he felt precome beading at the tip of his cock.

“You look good,” Chris said.

“What,” panted Tom.

Chris just smiled and pressed his large warm hand against the inside of Tom’s thigh, nudging it aside so he could tease Tom’s hole. He slipped a slick finger in and moved it around in gentle circular strokes. It felt weird but not entirely uncomfortable and Tom willed himself to relax as Chris ran his thumb over his cock as he prepared him.

Then Chris let go of his cock and hoisted Tom’s leg over one shoulder, hand closed around his knee as he pressed suckling kisses to the inside of his thigh. And then Chris was filling him, stretching him with thick and impossibly long fingers -- two fingers though they made Tom feel already full, cock twitching whenever Chris prodded at something that felt too good to exist.

It seemed unfair that Tom was getting more out of this than Chris was; Tom wanted to touch him too, kiss him, but he felt his head loll to the side as Chris breached him with his fingers, rubbing him open until he felt stretched and sore and unable to do anything but breathe shakily in and out.

“Chris,” Tom pleaded, eyes watery with desperation. He was going to come soon if Chris didn’t stop.

Chris undid his pants with a clumsy trembling hand and then he was freeing his cock which was a livid hard curve. And Tom, again, wanted to die as he watched Chris roll the condom over himself, his hand around the base of his cock as he pressed the tip to Tom’s hole.

Tom opened his mouth. “All right,” he acquiesced, swallowing thickly. “Slowly, slowly.”

He shut up, back arching, as Chris pushed past the ring of resistance and then, pausing, a fierce look of concentration between his eyebrows, exhaled a tense breath. Chris didn’t move for awhile and Tom continue to lay still, and he said, dropping down to one elbow, “You okay?”

Tom curled his toes in discomfort, tucked his face into Chris’ shoulder. “Just,” he gasped. “Stay put.”

Chris nodded. After awhile though he said, “Tom,” and Tom clenched his hand around Chris’ arm and squeezed. Chris slid home in one quick thrust and Tom felt stars burst behind his eyelids. It hurt but it also felt good and he felt so full, stretched wide and open around Chris’ cock.

Chris moved in tiny increments, the steady sway of his hips building a comfortable rhythm that Tom eased into eventually. His cock felt good rubbing between their bellies. He moaned when Chris’ pace quickened a notch, locking his ankles around the small of his back to pull him in deeper.

“Fuck,” hissed Chris. “You’re perfect.”

Tom wanted to laugh but only managed to let out a low grunt. He was seconds away from coming, he knew, could feel it building up steadily as Chris’s rocking motions reached a crescendo.

“Yeah,” Tom panted. “Fuck me harder.”

“What,” Chris said, looking like he didn’t quite believe what he just heard.

Tom shifted, grasping Chris’ shoulders and pulling him down to nip at his ear. “Fuck me harder I said,” he gasped. “I want to feel it for days.”

Chris swallowed, the colors of his face deepening as he nodded feverishly. He pressed a hand down Tom’s thigh to spread his legs even wider and with a low moan began pistoning his hips. The depth and angle of his thrusts made Tom’s toes curl and he ached to touch his cock but he didn’t want to come, not yet, not when the sweet burn of it made the edges of his vision blur.

“You like that Tom?” said Chris, grinning wickedly. “You like being spread open by my cock?”

“Fuck,” said Tom, because if that wasn’t just the hottest thing ever: Chris fucking into him thoroughly like Tom’s body was just his for the taking, his to use and fill with his come and spread open with his cock.

Chris was huge, and his body covered Tom’s completely, and Tom liked that, watching Chris’ muscles ripple as he lifted Tom’s ankles over his shoulders and rutted inside him, in smooth liquid movements, tongue flicking out to lick the corner of his lip.

“Yes, fuck. Fuck, give it to me,” Tom babbled, moaning when Chris drove in with a ragged breath and buried himself at his deepest. And then Tom came with a surprised shout, streaking his belly with come as Chris continued pounding into him, tilting his hips until he came too, fingernails digging painfully into Tom’s knees as his cock pulsed in the tight clutch of Tom’s body.

Chris pulled out with a soft noise that Tom echoed and then he was slipping off the condom and tossing it aside. He lowered himself on top of Tom again, practically pouring himself on Tom’s chest, and Tom eased his legs open to welcome Chris between them.

Chris grinned down at him, thumbing his hairline. “Hey,” he whispered.

Tom smiled sleepily up at him. He tipped his head back as Chris kissed down his neck, rubbing his nose against Tom’s collarbone before pressing an open-mouthed kiss to his shoulderblade.

“That,” Tom murmured after a moment, dragging the heel of his foot up Chris’ calf until he felt Chris shiver. “Was the oddest most elaborate fantasy ever.”

Chris, face buried against Tom’s neck, shook with laughter.