#but it's absolutely what fiver would try to do to protect them to the last

[warlordfelwinter]

the fact that fiver died alongside the twins in "urianger's vision" fucks me up so bad

[celosiaa]

avoidance

From a wonderful prompt I received! “A cold going around the season 1 archival staff and them just actively avoiding Jon because they don't want him to get sick because they know it'll be worst for him with his asthma. What they don't know is Jon's already caught it and is getting the wrong idea and just thinks he's being avoided because they don't want to catch it from him.”

Hope you enjoy this short little sickfic! Featuring hard of hearing Tim, especially for @haunted-by-catholic-guilt :)

“Oh, there he comes, Sash.”

“How does he look?” she replies, being sure to speak louder while Tim has his face turned away.

“Can’t tell yet.”

Tim cranes his neck and squints to better catch a glimpse of Martin, who walks toward their office from the lift, bundled up against the unseasonably cold weather in a knit scarf and hat.

“God, I need to get new prescriptions,” he says, rubbing his eyes against the blurriness.  “He’s got a hat and scarf on, though.”

“Ooh, things are looking promising!”

Turning back to her, jaw hanging open in mock-indigence, Tim places a shocked hand against his chest.

“Miss James, I’m horrified!  You would wish illness on our poor poet, Martin Blackwood, Esquire?”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” she says, sniffling a bit as she punches lightly at his arm.

“Morning, everyone,” Martin croaks as he steps in—though it must sound rather congested, judging by Sasha’s satisfied smirk, and she holds out her outstretched palm to him.

“Morning, Martin,” Tim replies at once, not willing to hand over his fiver just yet.  “How are you today?  Just peachy, I’ll bet?”

Throwing him a glare from where he’s sat down at his desk, Martin’s face suddenly goes hazy, his eyes unfocused as he pulls his scarf quickly over his nose—before sneezing thrice, harsh and miserable, breaking off into painful coughs to finish.

“Aw, Martin, I’m sorry,” Sasha coos in sympathy, patting his back with one hand while reaching out to accept Tim’s begrudging fiver with the other.

“Don’t you apologize, Sasha,” Martin croaks after he recovers himself, rubbing a tissue against his dreadfully pink nose.  “We all know this is Tim’s fault.”

“Excuse me???” Tim bursts, throwing his arms wide in a gesture of disbelief.

“Shut it, you know it’s true,” Sasha concurs, unwrapping a spare tissue box to donate to Martin’s desk.  “You’re the one who fraternized with Research, knowing they’ve had this bug going around for weeks.”

“Why are you both attacking me?” Tim shouts, breaking off to cough for a moment, his own illness not yet entirely abated.  “This is homophobic.”

“Not if we’re all queer, you arse!”

He returns to clutching at his chest, taking a dramatic inhale.

“Martin, she’s slinging me with the cruelest of insults!  Are you really going to sit there and do nothing?”

“Basically, yeah,” Martin replies, voice whittled down to a hoarse whisper—he makes sure to speak slowly, such that Tim can read his lips.  “Because she’s right, and you deserve it.”

“I’ll have you know, sir—“

Tim’s scolding is interrupted by the opening of the heavy door to document storage, from which Jon emerges—looking unkempt as ever, carrying a stack of files tucked beneath his left arm.  Nodding briefly at them in greeting, he hastens across the room to his office, and Tim just barely manages a glimpse of him pulling his inhaler out of his pocket before the door shuts. 

“Is he coughing?” Tim asks, turning to gauge their reactions.

“Yeah.  God, he sounds absolutely horrendous,” Martin croaks, wincing at the dreadful wheezing coughs, ineffectively muffled behind the door.

“It’s his own fault,” Tim mutters, earning him looks from both Martin and Sasha.  “What?  He could ask one of us to root through the dusty shelves for him,  you know, like a normal boss.  But he won’t, because he’s too damn stubborn.”

Knowing he’s at least a little bit right, Sasha and Martin say nothing, only continuing to listen with concern as Jon pulls twice from his inhaler, before finally seeming to get his breath back.

“We should all try to keep our distance from him,” Martin says at last, giving them both a significant look.  “I don’t want him to get this—not when he’s coughing like that.  Don’t want to put him at risk.”

Grin dropping from his face, Tim nods solemnly back at Martin, and Sasha follows suit.

“You’re right, mate.  We’ll do our best.”

“Yeah, it’s a deal, Martin.”

“Thanks,” Martin replies, flashing them a sunny, if not stuffed-up, smile.  “Right then, anything specific to work on today?”

—

For what feels like the hundredth time that day, Jon slams the pause button on the tape recorder, snatching up a tissue as fast as he can—near-silently stifling two into it.  It makes his head pound every time, tears at his already-battered throat, but he’d rather not spread whatever miserable illness he’s managed to catch all around the office.

Though it seems that they’d all been avoiding him well enough as it is.

He’s not a fool—he knows he’s got a fever, knows that he’s contagious and really ought to be avoided—but when Martin had neglected to bring him his afternoon tea that day, well…he was more than happy to blame the lump in his throat on the fever.  For all he tells himself that it doesn’t matter, that he ought to take care of himself, it does nothing to settle the ache in his chest.  The one that his inhaler can no longer take the edge off.

Sighing in frustration, Jon does his best to turn his focus back to his work—rising unsteadily to his feet to search for the next file.

What was the number again?

God, I’m dizzy.

He stretches out a hand to brace himself against the filing cabinet, blinking away the stars sparkling across his vision as he adjusts to standing.

Right.  01319…0…8?  9?

Wait, did I—did I finish the last statement?

He muffles a cough into his elbow, bracing even heavier on the cabinet.

Doesn’t matter, I’ll just get this one anyway.

Won’t need to get up again, at least.

“Looking for something, boss?”

Tim calls from his office door, which he’s propped open—perhaps in the subconscious effort to tempt Martin into bringing him tea. 

Pathetic.

“Jon?  You alright?”

“Oh—err, of course,” he says at once, lifting his head toward him.  “Can I help you?”

“I was the one asking,” Tim chuckles, stepping forward into his office—before immediately retreating again.

Oh.

“Sorry, I would help you, it’s just—you know, with this cold going around, better not.”

“R-right.”

Jon buries his hurt as quickly as possible, refusing to let it show on his face.

“Right, of course.  Then, err, just—carry on then, I suppose, Tim.”

Turning back to the cabinets, Jon tries to leave the conversation there, feeling his chest beginning to tighten with every passing moment.  He doesn’t want to get Tim ill, not when they’re all so clearly worried about catching it—

“Jon?  You’re—you look shaky, are you alright?”

Don’t cough don’t cough don’t cough

“Fine,” he croaks, even as he brings a hand up to press against his fluttering chest.

“What was that?” Tim asks, stepping just a bit closer, tilting his head to better read Jon’s lips.

Don’t don’t don’t

He can’t hold it back anymore.

At once, Jon doubles over with coughing, shallow wheezing accented by the rumbling of congestion deep within his lungs—all of it nearly sending him to the ground with the force of it.

“Jesus, Jon—just sit down, alright?  Christ,” Tim urges, at last entering the room to grab him by the shoulders, lowering him to sitting with his back against the filing cabinet.

Every thought of hiding or sparing Tim from contagion flies from his head, replaced only with the gasping need for air, his body screaming at him to breathe—

“What’s going on?” Martin asks from the door, scanning across the scene quickly, alarm rising at once.

“Get his inhaler,” Tim orders, tipping Jon’s head forward between his knees.

“Oh god.  Right—right, h-here, I’ve got it—Jon?”

He taps gently on Jon’s upper arm as he crouches.

“I’ve got it here, can you look up?”

It takes every shred of focus he has left to his power, but he does—reaching out to cover Martin’s hands with his own as he guides the inhaler to his lips, pressing down on the button and drawing as deeply as he can from it.

“Good, good, that’s—that’s good, Jon,” Martin stammers, still holding the inhaler within his reach.

“Take another,” Tim demands, voice leaving no room for argument.  “When you can.”

After a few more labored breaths, Jon complies—chest expanding a little more now, though he can still feel the crackling wetness at the edges of it.

“Here, Jon, I’ve got you some water,” Sasha says as she enters the room, undoubtedly having heard the commotion from outside.  “You alright?”

“Shouldn’t be here,” Jon rasps, seeing Martin’s hands in his periphery, reaching up to sign for Tim’s understanding.

“I know—we didn’t want to get you ill, Jon, but—“ Tim cuts off momentarily, running a hand through his hair in frustration.  “I mean, it sort of seemed like you needed help, right?”

Wait.

“You didn’t…you didn’t want…to get me ill?” Jon asks through panting breaths, finally feeling steady enough to lift his head.

“Well, no, we—“ Martin suddenly breaks off, scooting a little ways back from Jon as he realizes their proximity.  “Of course we didn’t want you to get ill, your asthma’s been so terrible the past few days.”

Jon shakes his head in confusion, brows furrowing as he glances between the three of them.

“I...I don’t—“

Oh.

Oh.

“You didn’t…know I was ill?” he asks, and Tim’s eyebrows shoot into his hair, turning back to share a glance with both Sasha and Martin.

“Oh no, Jon, I’m so sorry,” Martin laments at last, sniffling a bit into his sleeve.  “We didn’t—we thought that, well…we thought we were protecting you from getting it.”

The relief Jon feels at this is astonishing—certainly inordinate for the situation, but…he finds he does not care much altogether.  Even if just a bit, the knot in his chest seems to loosen—his breathing made easier just for a moment.

“Woah—you alright?” Tim asks with renewed concern, the cause uncertain to him, before—

He feels a tear beginning to slip down his face.

“Oh,” he says, hurriedly scrubbing it away.  “Oh, I—I’m sorry, I—I-I’m fine, it’s alright, I don’t know why—“

“It’s alright, Jon,” Sasha says from above him, leaning down to press a warm hand on his shoulder.  “Look, if you feel like you can stand, I’ll drive you home, okay?  You need to rest.  I’m serious.”

The look she gives him now, that they all give him—it’s nearly enough to bring a smile to his face, his mouth barely quirking up at one corner. 

“Y-yes, I—thank you, Sasha,” he says, allowing Tim and Martin to lift him slowly to his feet, leaning against them momentarily as he sways just a bit.

“You’re calling your doctor on the way,” Sasha continues, leading them out of his office and toward the lift.  “I’m not leaving you alone until you do.”

“R-right,” he pants against the exertion of their slow-paced walking.  “I—thank you.  I suppose.”

“Don’t mention it Jon,” Martin says softly as they bundle him into the lift.  “Just get well, okay?”

Something warm and lovely floods through Jon’s chest at this, and he cannot help but nod—a half-smile flickering across his face as the lift doors close.

[sserpente]

It had been two months now since Loki had randomly crashed into your garden and into your life. The God of Mischief had landed right on top of your now destroyed salad plants. You would have been upset if, and now that was the odd part, you didn’t know that Loki wasn’t but most importantly one thing: namely fictional.

A/N: So many of you wanted Loki to end up with the Reader after he escapes with the Tesseract. Well, I decided to spice things up a bit. Besides, I got very inspired at the Prater in Vienna two weeks ago.

Words: 1946 Warnings: fluff, AVENGERS ENDGAME SPOILERS

“Tell me again why we are doing this in the singeing heat?” Loki remarked sarcastically when you entered the amusement park. You let out a relieved breath, stepping into the shadow of the nearby information counter and pulled out two full water bottles from your rucksack, one of which you handed to Loki. He took it greedily, drinking up almost half of it right away.

You blinked, paralysed for a moment as you watched his thin lips closing around it. He was gulping so thirstily you could see his Adam’s apple bop with very sip. He really was outrageously handsome.

It had been two months now since Loki had randomly crashed into your garden and into your life. The God of Mischief had landed right on top of your now destroyed salad plants. You would have been upset if, and now that was the odd part, you didn’t know that Loki wasn’t but most importantly one thing: namely fictional.

It all made sense though, no? You had seen Avengers Endgame. Loki had snuffled the Tesseract and disappeared into a different dimension. And this dimension just so happened to be yours, in which the MCU was no more but a collection of fictional stories.

Naturally, the look on Loki’s face had been priceless when you told him things about his life not even Frigga knew… but eventually, he built something like trust. You were not quite sure whether it was the fact you had a Loki pillow you slept on every night or simply that you had told him that he was your favourite character and that you understood him in a way Thor never would. The latter you had said not only because it was the truth but also because he had intimidated and scared you a little when he first entered your house.

Then… you had ended up befriending him, a fictional character that happened to be not so fictional after all; and even… even beginning to fall in love with him. That was the confusing bit. Was he really? Real? What if you woke up one day and he had simply disappeared? While he had confirmed to you almost insulted he was indeed very real, another concern remained. What about Tom Hiddleston? They were technically the same person. Loki sure looked like him and he had been pretty amazed when you had told him about his actor’s existence.

Now here you were, introducing Loki to Midgardian life and fun activities so he could take his mind off things and until he had figured out what he’d do next. You dreaded the day he would leave you again, for you doubted he would consider taking you with him—so you enjoyed and cherished it for as long as it was going to last.

“We can go swimming after. But this is the last day the amusement park is in town. It’s fun, you’ll love it.”

“That is what you said when you made me try raw fish wrapped in dry seaweed.” He complained.

“Sushi. It’s called sushi. Come on, let’s go and do a rollercoaster first!” Excitedly, you pointed at one of the metal constructions. Loki slowly shook his head when he spotted it, watching one of the carriages go by with people inside screaming.

“Absolutely not. You go, I shall hold your bag for you.”

 -

But you tried. You really tried. Every ride you got on, you attempted to convince him to join you but Loki was stubborn. At some point, you even wondered if maybe he was afraid of heights but that he had almost rudely dismissed.

You were about to give up when you spotted the ghost train on the right hand side—eerie skeletons hanging out of broken windows and a pair of yellow glowing eyes looking through an open door leading to a pitch-black cabin… and a terrifying laughter coming from inside the haunted house.

Confidently, you reached for his hand and dragged him towards it. But Loki would not move an inch. Instead, his blue eyes were fixed on something else entirely. Confused, he tilted his head. There was a girl queuing up for one of those scary sling shot rides—nothing special about her, really. But one thing caught his attention. She was carrying a Loki backpack.

You doubted it would be a good idea for him to simply walk over and say hello—and even though you felt rather proud your words proved to be true and Loki indeed had an army in this dimension, you somehow wanted to have the God of Mischief all to yourself.

“A most peculiar piece of luggage.” Loki noted, studying the golden horns attached to the green backpack. “I rather like it. Not as much as your collection of ‘t-shirts’ but it pleases me. Just how…” He trailed off, making you frown.

“How what?”

Loki smirked. A bitter smirk, failing to hide the pain burning in his heart. “It still feels much unusual to have… genuine supporters.”

That it did and it broke your heart he felt such incredulity about it.

“You have no idea, Trickster. I’m gonna have to introduce you to Tumblr sometime…” You mumbled.

“Whatever that is…” He replied, turning back to you as if he wanted to forget his thoughts and concerns. “What next?”

“Will you at least do the ghost train with me?” You asked, pointing at the haunted house.

“Define that.”

“You sit in a carriage that’s slowly moving in the dark and there’s creepy things installed jumping out to scare you.”

“That sounds absurd.”

“Pretty please? We can get some candy after.” You tempted him. Loki raised his brows. Now you had him. He really was a sweet tooth, this much you had found out already. His favourite was chocolate of course—all kinds of it, really. But you were dying to introduce him to candy floss. Besides, if you got him to join you on the ghost train, you had a legal excuse to cuddle up against him and hide your face in his chest.

Loki sighed. “Very well. But if I am going to regret this, you will pay the price, little mortal.” You knew he was joking. The playful tone in his voice made your heart jump and your knickers grow wet. Swallowing thickly, you approached the counter of the ghost train and purchased two tickets.

Only a few moments later you were both sat in one of the carriages. You jumped when it started to move inside the haunted house with a loud rumbling—and it was then you wrapped your arms around Loki’s middle already.

It was the first time he allowed this much body contact. Loki craved the attention, yet still acted very restrained around you. He chuckled when the first ‘monster’ jumped out from the dark and made you squeal.

“They are puppets.” He stated after two more jumpscares he was seemingly very unimpressed with. “Harmless puppets, darling.” Darling. That nickname alone had been worth it to persuade Loki to do this with you. And then, suddenly… you felt his arm around you, pulling even closer. Never before had you felt this protected and safe.

You were almost disappointed when the ride was over and you both had to climb out of the carriage again once you returned to proper daylight.

“If you are so scared of ghost trains, then why do you pay money for them?”

You shrugged. “That’s the point, really. It’s funny to get scared because you know it’s not real and then you laugh after. It’s fun.”

“Strange little mortal.” He teased playfully. “Now… as for my candy?”

You grinned. “Have you ever heard of candy floss?” Loki shook his head slowly. “It’s… well, you’ll see.”

Excited, you returned to the market stands, one of which also sold candy floss. His eyes soon widened when he spotted the fluffy clouds on sticks displayed in different colours of the rainbow.

“Which colour?”

“Green.”

“I thought so. The flavour will be green apple, is that alright?”

He nodded. Fascinated, he watched how the lady behind the counter made a fresh one for him after you paid her and finally, handed it to him. Greedily, he took it and dug his fingers into the soft sugar mixture. Only the blinking of an eye later, he had already shoved some of it into his mouth.

“So?” You asked with a smirk, reaching for the candy floss to taste it yourself.

“It melts on the tongue… delicious.” And he ate the whole thing in almost no time, throwing the wooden stick into a nearby bin. Well… he was a God. You chuckled.

“I’m glad you liked it.” You only wished he would look at you this longingly.

Maybe one more ride now and then you would take him swimming… it was still boiling hot and you feared you’d come down with a sunburn if you didn’t take a break soon to apply some sunscreen.

“Is that…” Once again, Loki stopped. This time, in front of another stand. A colourful one, with a striped roof reminding you of the circus. Inside, there countless plush toys waiting to be won. Your gaze followed his, causing you to gasp.

“Plush toys! Yes! Of the Avengers! Oh my God… look, they’re so cute! And so big! I want one!”

Loki rolled his eyes playfully. “Well, go and get one then.”

“You can’t buy them, you have to win them by playing the game. I’ll ask if he has a Loki plush toy, too, though.”

“Please…” Loki couldn’t quite decide if he should chuckle or roll his eyes again. He settled for both when you approached the owner of the stand.

“Oh yes!” He heard him say. “You’re lucky. There’s only one left, the Loki ones sell out quickly. But it’s one of the big prizes. You’d have to hit all of the targets to get it.”

Amused, Loki eyed the stand. That was all? Hitting five targets with soft balls? He could do that blindfolded.

“We shall try our luck then,” He tossed in, earning him a bewildered glare from the stand owner. With a little luck he would only think Loki was a really accurate cosplayer. Or he simply didn’t care. Or he hadn’t seen the Marvel movies himself.

Smirking, Loki handed him a fiver from the stack of ‘Midgardian money’, as he called it, and which he seemed to keep in his magical pockets you did not understand the concept of, and confidently reached for the balls in the bowl on the counter. Then, he aimed.

You watched, flabbergasted, amused by his sudden change of heart and somewhat turned on at the very same time as he took no more than forty seconds to get the job done, his muscles flexing in the process. Was it weird you wanted to lick that pale neck? Probably. But probably not.

“Now. The prize?” He mused proudly. You grinned. You doubted that the stand owner had any idea of what had just happened. Grumpily, he hand you the Loki push toy, mumbling something that did not at all sound like “congrats” but more like “fuckers”. You simply ignored him and instead stood on your toes to press a gentle kiss on Loki’s cheek before you took the plush toy with a happy squeal, pressing it to your chest firmly.

“Thank you, Trickster.” Loki smirked in response and winked cheekily.

“You know, as much as I enjoy it, I don’t think I shall ever get used to Midgardians losing their minds over my… what did you call it? ‘Fanmerch’. So… are we going swimming now?”

You giggled, leaning into him. “You really earned it.”

-

A/N: What do you think of this concept, guys? Of Loki being in ‘our’ dimension? Likey? I honestly think I could have a lot of fun with that in the future.

If you enjoyed this story, I would appreciate so much if you supported me on Kofi! kofi.com/sserpente ♥

[a-little-international]

Stable (3)

Summary: Even Tom knows it’s a cliché  for the stable hand to fall in love with the star rider.

Pairing: Tom Holland/OC

Warnings: petty and hormonal teenage boys

Words: 2,791

A/N: since moving back home, i’ve started riding again and honestly there’s a distinct lack of male stable hands in my age range which is UNACCEPTABLE and is the primary reason for reviving this fic.

The Series: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4

Chapter 3

Wednesday rolled around much faster than Tom ever wanted it to, dreading having to spend the hours after school running after Harrison Osterfield and trying his best to avoid the topic of Ren. Knowing Harrison, that was unlikely, but he still held out hope. The only good thing about Wednesdays was that the last two hours were a double art class with his mum, and his best friend Jacob sitting by his side.

“Do you think they made out?” Jacob asked, pushing down on his lump of clay, “Like with tongues and everything?”

Tom slammed his chunk of clay on the table, grimacing at Jacob, “Can you shut up?” he replied, his voice hushed as he glanced up to see if his mother had overheard. “And I’m sure if they did it was with tongues, we’re not twelve anymore dude.”

“Yeah and it’s Osterfield, guy’s such a slimy bugger I bet he shoved it all the way down her throat,” Jacob carried on, sticking his tongue out as far as possible to demonstrate, adding slurping and gagging sounds for effect.

“Shut up,” Tom reiterated, clenching his hands into the clay at the thought of Harrison all over Ren. He was jealous, he knew he was and he knew it was a terrible thing to do and Ren didn’t owe him a second of her time, let alone her affection, but he just wished she wasn’t into Harrison of all people. He didn’t even want to know what the implication of them being at boarding school together meant -  he’d heard plenty about the goings on between students at Saints and he tried to push Ren’s potential involvement with any of that as far out of his mind as he could possible manage.

As if Jacob could read his mind, he rambled on, “Do you think they’ve slept together?”

“Ugh, Jacob! Please!” Tom exclaimed, throwing his head back. He did not want to be thinking about this mere hours before having to look at Harrison all evening.

“You need to face the facts, Tom. They’re probably banging and she’s never going to look at you that way.”

“Ouch,” Tom pouted as he continued to squish the clay between his hands, in no way following his mother’s instructions.

“You have been pining over her for too long, my friend. This may actually be a good thing! You’ll be able to go off to University without having to dream forever more about the beautiful yet elusive Ren.”

“Not sure if I’m even going to Uni,” Tom sulked, tugging the sleeves of his uniform jumper higher up his elbows so they wouldn’t get too ruined.

“Well my point still stands, you can’t mope about for the rest of your life Thomas. Plenty of fish, and all that.”

Tom frowned at his friend, not loving where this conversation had headed when all he’d wanted was a pep talk for later. “You’re mister romantic, what happened? Since when are you so anti pursuing what could possibly be the love of your life?” he exclaimed, kneading down on his clay.

Jacob smirked as he leaned against the table, his blob of clay totally forgotten about. “Listen, I am all for pursuing the love of your life. I just want to posit that there may be more than one, and you’ve gotta let it go when you know you’ve been beaten. Plenty of fish, you hear me? You’ll find more success elsewhere, young padawan.”

“Fine, Obi,” Tom sighed, rolling his eyes, “but I don’t know that I’ve been beaten yet. We don’t know for sure that anything has ever happened between them and so I might still be in with a chance. She said I was her favourite on Saturday,” he added proudly, as if that proved anything.

Jacob snorted and returned to his clay, “Alright casanova, let me know how to that goes. But I’ll bet you five quid and the snickers at the bottom of my bag that you’ll find out plenty from Harrison this evening.”

“I’ll take you up on the fiver, but I don’t want anything to do with that rank snickers.”

“Suits me,” Jacob shrugged, shooting a grin at his best friend and Tom knew he was only trying to protect him from another round of heartache and pining. This sort of thing happened every few months, where Ren was concerned. She would say something, and Tom would completely misinterpret it and get his hopes up and nothing would happen and on the cycle would go.

“Boys, come on, less gossiping more creating!” Tom’s mother’s voice brought him out of his thoughts and he grinner up at her, desperately hoping she hadn’t overheard any part of their conversation. Knowing her, though, that seemed highly unlikely. He wondered if she would bring it up at dinner, or store it away for later referral. She winked back at him as she walked away, tapping her fingers against his desk. Tom dropped his head, groaning internally at the thought of having to discuss this with her later.

---

“Alright Tom, can you grab Skylark next please, Harrison’s just arrived and he’ll want to jump right up.” Called his dad from the barn doors, a bunch of polo mallets tucked under his arm.

“Daaaaad,” Tom groaned, throwing his head back as he pulled a face, “can’t I go get someone else? Literally anyone else, please,” he begged, approaching his dad.

Peering out at the courtyard he saw Harrison talking to his mother through the open car window as he pulled on his gloves, looking clean and tidy and expensive as ever. Tom scuffed his worn out boot tip against the flagstones.

Dominic Holland looked over his shoulder to give his son a stern look, one eyebrow raised. “Now Tom, you’ve got about three minutes to pick up that attitude and get Skylark out to the field.”

“Literally anyone else.” Tom repeated himself, his eyes practically begging his father to relent.

Mr. Holland was not to be moved or swayed. “Go, now. Please Tom.”

There was no winning, and Tom just hoped that Harrison would ignore him all evening.

Alas, he had no such luck, as the second Harrison rounded the corner to the polo field, his eyes were fixed on Tom and he could have sworn he saw the star player square his shoulders as he approached.

“Evening, Holland,” Harrison greeted curtly, swinging up onto his horse without a second’s hesitation, “good weather for a game, isn’t it?”

“Yep,” Tom replied, just as stiffly as he handed the reins up to Harrison, “cracking weather.” He wondered why Harrison was talking to him about the weather at all, the fact that he had even acknowledged him without being forced to was just as unusual as it was suspicious. “Have a good rideout on Saturday?” Tom heard himself asking out loud, to his absolute horror. He tried his best not to make too much of a face as he glanced up at Harrison, who was fiddling with one of his stirrup leathers.

“Hmm?” Harrison hummed, not bothering to look at Tom, as he checked the new length of his stirrup, “Oh, with Florence?” he added, almost absentmindedly.

Tom bit down on his lip. If he had been talking to anyone else, it would have almost seemed like a normal, totally casual conversation. But it was exactly that normal, totally casual way in which Harrison spoke her name that felt like dig; like he was telling Tom how totally normal and casual it was for him to be spending time with her, when to Tom it was a treasured commodity.

All Tom could muster as a response was a nod of his head and an affirmative grunt.

If it hadn’t been for his impulsive question in the first place, he wouldn’t have to remain next to Harrison, painfully waiting for an answer he wasn’t sure he really wanted to hear. But there he was, standing next to the epitome of what he both always wanted to be and tried his best to never become, waiting for what felt like the inevitable blow that would break his heart.

“Oh it was rather good,” Harrison said, smirking at Tom as he shifted around in the saddle, his shoulders pushing back confidently. “Nice to get some one-on-one time with her, school can be pretty manic, you know how it is”.

That definitely felt like another dig, and Tom swallowed as he nodded up at Harrison unable to think of a properly. Of course he didn’t know how it was at school with them. Mayfield College was a world away from St. Augustine’s, even if it was just three miles down the road. He’d been inside the old brick walls of the boarding school a couple of times for various school events, and had visited the sprawling grounds more often than that for the occasional soccer match or to cheer on his school’s rugby team, but he couldn’t really begin to imagine what it was like going there. He’d definitely never have imagined it as manic.

“Anyway, hoping to get some proper one-on-one time with her this Saturday anyway,” Harrison continued smugly, winking at Tom suggestively, who had stuffed his balled fists so deep into the pockets of his jacket he was worried he might tear the fabric. “I’m sure you must have heard all about my party by now.”

Tom just glared up at Harrison, biting down on the inside of his cheek. He didn’t like what Harrison was implying at all, and he certainly hadn’t heard of his stupid party and he was sure that Harrison knew that too. Another jab, just to be sure.

“Oh well, it really is just all Saints people anyway, so I suppose you mightn’t have heard after all,” Harrison shrugged, a smile tugging at the side of his mouth as he looked down his nose at Tom. “We’re never quite sure what trickles down to you lot at Mayfield,” he added, a smug grin spreading over his face as he urged his horse forward onto the field, without another glance back.

Tom looked over at his brother Sam, jaw dropped at Harrison’s comment. Sam was just sending another team member onto the field with a short wave when he looked over and frowned questioningly back at Tom.

“I hate him,” Tom grumbled as he stomped over to complain, hands still buried in his pockets, “so much.”

Sam rolled his eyes, looking around to see if anyone else needed any more help. “He’s really not that bad.”

“Hey, you’re meant to be on my side,” Tom replied, shooting a look at his brother before turning his attention to the riders on the field, who were all being handed their mallets by their trainer.

“It’s just an act, you know that right?” Sam questioned, raising an eyebrow at Tom.

“Did you know about his party on Saturday?” Tom continued, choosing to completely ignore what his brother had just said, he was clearly delusional. “Ren is going to it apparently.”

“Good for her,” Sam chuckled, leaning back against the fence as the game started, horses racing past them and mallets swinging. Tom had already lost sight of the ball amongst the trampling of hooves.

“Yeah,” Tom nodded, watching as Harrison sharply turned his horse around to go barrelling down towards the other end of the field. And sure, it was good for her, he was glad she was being invited to parties and having fun and had what seemed to be a great group of friends from all accounts, he just really wished it wasn’t with Harrison. He knew he sounded like an entitled child and resented that feeling inside him, but he couldn’t help being so in love with her that every time she so much as looked his way his mouth ran dry. Being seventeen and in love was hard work.

---

Even dripping in sweat Harrison Osterfield looked good, and Tom made a mental note to add that to his list of things that bothered him about the preppy polo player.

Harrison held out his muddy mallet for Tom to take as he swung down off his horse, boots hitting the slightly soggy ground with a confident thud.

“Good game, Osterfield, good game,” Remy Hii, the team captain jeered, slapping Harrison on the shoulder with a big grin.

“All down to your stellar leadership, of course,” Harrison replied, tipping his helmet like he was some sort of nineteenth century gentleman. Tom rolled his eyes as he held up a bucket of water so Skylark could get a drink.

“See you on Saturday, yeah?” Tom heard Remy say as he walked away, his own horse in tow.

“Absolutely” Harrison replied, waving his gloved hand in salute. For a second, Tom wondered what it would be like to be in Harrison’s circle of friends, to actually be privy to invites and jockular exchanges, when he felt a firm had come down on his shoulder.

“You know, Holland, Florence was saying you’re gonna be her groom for the season,” Harrison said, his voice barely over a whisper, and a shiver of dread ran down Tom’s spine at the anticipation of an upcoming threat, “and I just to make sure that you know that if anything happens to her at all, I will be blaming you, so you better do a better job at checking the leather with her than you did with me.”

Tom frowned at him, feeling like he was missing the punchline of a joke. For one, he was entirely caught off guard by Harrison’s apparent protectiveness of Ren, and secondly he had no idea what leather he meant and what could possibly be wrong with it.

Harrison didn’t wait long to illuminate him as he lifted the upper skirt of the saddle to expose the top of the stirrup strap, where the stitching keeping it all together had almost entirely come apart and the leather had worn down so much that it almost seemed like a miracle that he hadn’t entirely lost his stirrup during the two hours of training.

Tom didn’t know what to say; with the level these people were riding at, a sudden loss of stirrup at the wrong moment could be fatal, and he had no idea how he’d missed it. He looked at Harrison, eyes wide, hoping he wouldn’t say anything to anyone about it or he’d be off the roster for the next two millennia and he could wave goodbye to ever getting to hang around Ren again.  

“Now, I’m going to let this slide on the conditions that you fix this immediately,” Harrison said, voice low and holding one finger up to Tom like a stern parent, “you make sure my tack and horse are in proper riding condition from this moment forth so I never have to deal with your utter incompetence again,” he continued, holding up a second finger, “ and, that nothing even remotely like this happens to Ren or I will make your life so much worse than it already is,” he finished, holding up a rather menacing looking third finger. “Don’t test me.”

All Tom could do was nod, still totally caught off guard to Harrison’s attitude towards Ren. He’d always seemed like a slimy git and he was at least seventy five percent sure he was some kind of psychopath, but maybe Sam was right. But then again, maybe Sam was wrong and Harrison was just playing mind games with him and knew Tom’s weakness was always and forever going to be Ren, and the momentary reprieve in animosity he had felt for Harrison dissipated pretty swiftly.

“I’ll take Skylark in for you then,” Tom finally said after enough tense seconds had passed between them, taking the reins and making a move back towards the stables.

“Absolutely not,” Harrison hissed, snatching the reins right back, “I’ll leave the saddle on the bench in the tack room for you to fix, and mark my words: I’ll be checking every last stitch before I get on next time and if even one thing is out of place I will be informing your father of your sheer incompetence.

Tom watched as Harrison led Skylark away, the half empty water bucket still dangling from his fingertips, totally ignoring the other team members that were still bustling around that might be in need of some assistance.

“What was that all about?” Harry asked, sidling up next to him with a dirty towel used for rubbing down the sweaty horses flung over his shoulder.

Tom pursed his lips and glanced over at his brother, “So, I almost killed Harrison Osterfield and then he threatened me.”

“Fair,” Harry shrugged casually, “but better luck next time.”

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