The Hero (PG-13)
Oct. 9th, 2005 11:46 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
winterliveHi. So, a while ago, I wrote this piece called The Villain. If you liked that, you might like this; it's a sequel. If you didn't read that, you might give it a try. Unless, of course, you don't care for HP RPS.
If you are part of my real life, go away. Or, know this: I am going to hell. To. Hell. (Note the subtle code above.) And unless you want to come with me, you turn right around and march your butt back to whatever it was you were doing before. Y'hear? *looks at you sternly*
Pairing: TR/DF
Warnings: underage.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, don't know the people involved, none of this ever happened, what a ridiculous notion. What are you, some kind of pervert?
Notes: Beta'd by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
stoney321. I LOVE her. Teh roxxor, really.
The Hero
SIX MONTHS LATER
I'm clearly mental.
Tom stands in front of the mirror, trying to get his white-blond hair to help him look in any way like a decent person. This is the second go at it - he put too much gel in last time and wound up with Draco's skullcap, and had to go shower. He's already late, and his mother is waiting impatiently downstairs; he can hear her pacing, jingling the car keys as she fidgets with them. "Thomas, hurry up, darling! It's ten past!"
"Coming, mum!" He scrubs his fingers through his hair, trying to get it to lie down, but the stubborn cowlicks twist and curl where they shouldn't. He can never work the magic that the makeup girls do. He'll come home with softly falling, baby-fine hair, and when he steps out of the shower in the morning, it's the same spiky mess it always is. There's no reason he should be bothering, really. He just... wants to look nice when he stalks angrily out, which he'll certainly do. The invitation had to be a mistake, and when he gets there, he's sure he'll be met with... well, something unpleasant.
"Tom!"
He faces himself in the mirror, looking into his own eyes. "Right. Come on, let's get it over with." He picks up his jumper and shrugs into it, the tastefully wrapped present tucked inside where it can't be seen.
His mother thinks he's going to a friend's for a late-night study session. She doesn't know that last Friday's pleasant little sociable hadn't been Radcliffe's real birthday party.
Everyone's parents had carefully stayed out of it to a degree, trying to be tolerant and reasonable and modern, but of course it hadn't been an actual party. Just more studio politics, with the cast invited and certain important people's kids, and they'd all been expected to at least be civil. Tom had passed some time chatting with Genevieve, Josh and Jamie, but they'd made easier friends among the cast than he had. Genevieve, in particular, had taken pains to be extra sweet to Emma - no hard feelings, ha, isn't it a laugh, Pansy Parkinson and Hermione Granger at a party - and of course Emma had responded with her usual grace and charm. Tom hadn't begrudged Genevieve. Of course he wouldn't. So they'd wound up drifting apart, and Tom had wandered alone for a while, listening politely at the edges of people's conversations.
Emma, Grint and Radcliffe, of course, had been completely inseparable. You might have gotten one away from the others - Emma to talk with the girls, or Rupert to chum around with the group around the television - but Radcliffe might as well have handcuffed himself to one or another of them.
Not that Tom would have wanted to get him alone, no, no cause for that. He'd done exactly as he should: left his gift-wrapped six part Star Wars box set on the table with the other gifts and managed a reasonably friendly nod-and-smile when Daniel opened it up. It was a little cheesy, maybe, but it did make an amicable nod to the five seconds they'd spent alone in each other's company. At the same time, though, it was something you'd buy for an acquaintance, a co-worker. Inoffensive, surely.
For about a half a second, he'd thought he'd made a grave mistake. The tension in the air was palpable as Daniel's hands stilled in the act of tearing off the paper, revealing what lay beneath. Threads of it ran between the two of them, and he'd been sure everyone else would immediately be able to tell. Daniel's eyes had been deep and dark for that moment, searching his with intent. Tom had been unable to move, to react - deer in the headlights.
"Brilliant," Radcliffe finally pronounced, and smiled pleasantly. "I was waiting for the set to come out."
"I know," Tom had said, talking without really thinking about what he was saying. "I checked with your mum first."
Radcliffe just nodded and gave that pleasant, kosher smile again. "Thanks," he said, (oh, brilliant, checked with his mum, because I like to check up on him and I'm the best of friends with his mother. Just fucking brilliant, Tom...) but though he seemed sincere, it was only moments before the whirlwind took him up again. People pushed more presents into his hands and clamored for his attention, just as they always did, and Tom gracefully bowed back into the noise and left the party a half hour later, begging a headache.
He'd stuffed the jealousy down with a skill born of practice.
They'd never really met again after that night - not the same way. It turned out to be impossible to plan something like... well, like that. Every time Tom tried to find his way to Daniel in a quiet moment to talk, something would come up and they'd be dragged apart to make-up or line readings or school - whatever. If Daniel had tried to get away to see him, it hadn't worked.
But of course, Tom never actually saw him trying. Daniel was irritatingly nonchalant about the whole thing, not a single solid, perceptible difference about him. He didn't seem any different, never said anything unusual or out of character. He acted, ultimately, as though nothing had ever happened.
Unless, of course, one just so happened to be Tom.
Never once did he get the idea that Daniel had forgotten about it. The secret knowledge of it would be there, in his eyes, when they were reading together. It'd be there when they saw each other in the mornings, when he would set a coffee down next to Tom's elbow before sitting down with his own. It was there in the second's extra touch when they passed pencils or Quidditch brooms between them.
Oh, it's clear as day, Tom would think, sipping at the coffee and glaring at Daniel across the table. Plain as the nose on your face. In the way that's sure to make me sound like a ravening madman the second I try to explain it to anybody. Bastard.
Now, it was a terrible idea, of course. Anybody would know that. The very thought was laughable - he and Dan Radcliffe! Preposterous. The whole world knew them, watched them, but if that wasn't bad enough, they would be working together for years to come, if all went well. Tom couldn't afford this. It just wasn't on.
He'd almost convinced himself of that - and more importantly, that Radcliffe had come to the same obvious conclusion - when he'd found the plain white envelope on his dressing desk in the Slytherin trailer. He'd opened it curiously, read it with disbelief and finally guiltily stuffed the whole thing, envelope and all, into his pocket.
Vader,
Come to the dark side on 30 July. My place, ten-ish.
While the Council's away, the Jedi will play.
Ben
So, somewhere between there and here, Tom finds himself making his way through the darkened city streets that lead away from his mother-sanctioned location, hood pulled up so he won't be recognized. He knows Daniel's parents are away. He knows it's a select party, and he doesn't know who'll be there. He pushes the third button on the entry wall of the Radcliffes' posh flat and, almost immediately, the door buzzes at him angrily. Tom climbs the stairs, three flights of elegant grandeur, and creeps down the hall, feeling like a burglar. He isn't meant to be here.
The door bursts open before he reaches it, freezing him in his tracks. Three people he only barely knows stumble out on a wave of throbbing music, reeling in each other's arms, laughing and flushed. They are older than he is. He stands aside to let them pass, which they do, not even seeming to notice him. He recognizes one - a Hufflepuff extra - but he doesn't say anything to her, and she doesn't seem to see him. They go off down the hall, three together, with arms slung around each others' shoulders, passing a bottle of water and saying things to each other that Tom doesn't understand, or isn't supposed to, anyway.
Once they're safely in the lift, Tom ducks in the open door and closes it carefully behind him.
The party's in full swing, the room darkened; it's heavy with the sweet scent of booze and fresh sweat. They've turned down the lights, and someone's replaced one bulb with a red one that paints the upturned faces in livid light and shadows. Some thick, rich music is playing, a rhythmic synonym for sex. People are necking in the corners, on the couches, and there's a makeshift dance floor where the coffee table and the area rug should be. Everyone's hands are everywhere - he can see the pale flashes of skin on black clothes.
He did not expect this.
His collar sticks to the nape of his neck as his skin flushes. He would worry about blushing, but he knows his face would be red from the light alone, so that's a small blessing. He digs his hands into his pockets and ducks his head, painfully conscious of his bright hair like a beacon in the dark. He doesn't want to be seen, not yet - but he can't resist looking around, seeing the faces. He's trying to recognize people, find someone he knows. He almost hopes he doesn't. Anyone he knows would also know he doesn't belong here. This isn't his kind of thing. Parties, sure, but everyone here is...
There's no sign of most of the main cast, but there's a bunch of extras and crew members. There're people Tom's never seen before, and he figures maybe they're Daniel's friends from before the movies. Of course he had some, and of course they're still here - not only is Radcliffe the kind that makes friends easily, he's also rich and handsome. He can have any friend he wants. Tom even spots some people in the crowd that he's never seen in person before - just on TV.
He really did not expect this.
His mind wars between embarrassment and jealous anger. He shouldn't be here, he should go home right now. He should just go to the store and call his mother, she'd come to get him. Maybe he'd have to take a grounding, but he'd manage that all right. He'd think of something to tell her, something plausible. Maybe a rave, or an orgy... or...
Or anything that wasn't Radcliffe's birthday party.
Stumbling into the kitchen, blind but for the need to escape the heat-filled living room, he finds Grint talking to a pair of girls. They're gazing at him adoringly, one on each side as he leans back against the counter - he's a movie star, he knows it. Grint looks put together, trendy clothes and messy, professionally tousled coif. The beer in his hand doesn't look a bit out of place. For that matter, neither does he.
"Tom," Grint says, wide-eyed and surprised. He glances over Tom in his trainers and unruly hair, his new blue jeans and Daniel's jumper. It's plain enough, what he thinks.
Next time you feel the urge to wear that look, Grint, you just let me know. I'll wear a sodding chicken outfit, and then it'll really be worth it.
"What're you doing here?" The girls titter quietly while Rupert seems to realize what he's said and fumbles to backpedal, stuttering over ‘I mean's and ‘I was trying to say's. Part of his charm, that. Tom thinks he does his awkward, klutzy, affable bloke act at least partially on purpose.
"It's okay," Tom says hastily, putting a hand up to forestall a slew of words that won't mean anything. "I was just leaving."
Rupert fumbles a bit, but Tom's already turning.
There'll be pay phone on the street. He won't stay here, not another minute. He digs in the pocket of the jumper for some change, and his fingers bump against the little package he brought, wrapped in bright paper. He shakes his head wryly, trying to keep the fear under control.
Someone knocks into him as he picks his way through the living room, pressing hot and big into his side, and Tom pushes the guy off him. It's a big, meaty face that glowers down, sneering at him as he stumbles off, and Tom feels the heat pressing in on him, people so close in the lush, dark room. It's claustrophobic, there's too many people, not enough air, and he's just in the process of spinning around to make a sprint for the door when he's brought up short by...
"Daniel."
Right in front of him, standing up from one of the couches and reaching for him, he comes. He sets a tumbler full of something fizzy and surely alcoholic down on a glass table and smiles. Tom can't look away from his eyes. He looks like a satyr in the red haze around him, his lips slightly parted, amused and knowing quirk at the corner. The music pounds around them, suddenly thrumming in Tom's veins, and Daniel slides up to him and puts his slender arms around Tom's neck. He leans in to be heard over the music, and his lips brush Tom's ear, too intimate.
"Glad you could come."
Tom's frozen again, his skin buzzing, searing where Daniel's mouth touched him. He's hard already, his hands settling on the slender waist, smooth belly sliding against his, under t-shirts. Daniel must be able to feel it, but either he hasn't guessed what he feels or... or he has guessed. And he's still...
Daniel pulls back just a little, his wrists still around Tom's neck, his hips still pressing in. He doesn't go far; just enough to get them face to face. The shadows slant across his face so Tom can't see his eyes. He can, however, see the soft, faintly wicked smile that plays at the corners of Daniel's mouth. There are so many people here, so many eyes watching, but if there weren't, Tom might take Daniel's face between his hands, force him to look up at a light so Tom could see.
Gently, Daniel starts to dance.
They're subtle, small movements. Slight shifts of Daniel's legs make his whole body undulate, press in perfect time with the music against Tom's legs, his hips, his belly. It's hard to breathe. Tom can feel the little twinges in pressure, the soft slide of Daniel's skin against the nape of his neck, the totally inappropriate pressure between them. His head is screaming twenty things, but all he does is stand there, hands loosely gripping Daniel's waist, eyes searching.
He doesn't know what he expects to find, but if it will explain this in any way, it'll be worth it.
Daniel inches closer to him, lets his forehead press against Tom's. "I like you," he breathes, whispered confession. One of his hands slides up into Tom's hair and Tom feels him stroking a feathery blond lock. Daniel's sweating from the heat and the scent of it makes Tom hungry, or something like it. He wants to pull Daniel to him, taste that sweat and follow it down. He wants to push away and run like the devil's after him.
"Come on," Daniel whispers, sliding a hand down to Tom's and pulling away slightly, tugging on his fingers. "Come with me." His dark hair falls in his shadowed eyes, curls damply at the nape of his neck, at his temples.
Holding onto Daniel's hand, Tom tries to shake off the spell he's under, tries to focus. Going anywhere that isn't this room feels, instinctively, like a good idea. Yes, he has come to hate this room. But Daniel leads him off through the crowd, weaving through people who smile at them knowingly, and as the lights dim from glowing red hell to gilded study to dim hallway, Tom begins to suspect he's made a mistake. As the music fades behind them, the people thin out and then disappear, and Tom feels his palm sweating, more nervous than the rest of him.
Daniel bloody Radcliffe is holding my hand.
He can't explain it, it shouldn't be possible on this planet, and surely something's amiss, out of sorts, but he can't put his finger on it... and then Daniel opens a door, and there is light. Tom can see.
And instantly, he wishes he couldn't.
It's a well-appointed bedroom. Whatever Tom was expecting, this isn't it: slick black furnishings, light and airy, very modern. Low lamps glow softly on the bedside tables, the tan carpet picking up gold highlights. The bloody place is Hoovered, immaculate. Radcliffe tugs on his hand, and Tom moves forward before he can stop himself. It is then that he sees the sanctum.
Radcliffe has, one presumes, a desk. It must lurk somewhere under that pile of... stuff. Amongst the detritus, Tom spies sheet music, thick guitar picks, CD cases and, inevitably, the cherished iPod. He realizes, standing in the room and staring like an idiot, that he's never seen that thing not attached to Radcliffe somehow, and to see it lying out, unattended, is somehow very private.
Personal.
Intimate.
He jumps when he feels a hand glide softly up his back, fingertips barely brushing his skin. "I remember this," Daniel says dreamily, and Tom turns around to face him, more than a little gobsmacked. Daniel doesn't notice, just lets his hand hover softly over Tom's shoulder blade, bicep, and then chest, moving with him, barely there. "I gave this to you," he says, relaxed and hushed, taking a cold metal half-a-zipper between his fingers and rubbing his thumb over the points, so Tom can feel the tug against his neck. The light falls in soft, quilted shadows over Daniel's fingers, his tilted face, the space between them that's warming in their mingled presence.
"Yeah." The word has to be dragged from his throat, he's so unsure he should be talking at all. Still, though, something is off, beyond even being here. Forgetting for a moment that he is unsure of himself, Tom takes Daniel's chin and tips his face up to the light.
As he suspected, Daniel's huge black eyes are liquid and bottomless. In the moment he has to think, he realizes the worst is true, and then Daniel's hands are tangling in his jacket and t-shirt and he is being pulled down, down to those impossibly red lips, and it all goes arse over teakettle as their lips touch, fingers in his hair, heat and urgency, and the answering hardness pressing against his belly, just right, overwhelming and perfect...
Daniel's pupils did not dilate.
Tom pulls away, gasping and ragged already, gripping Daniel's arm too tight. Hands around bony shoulders, he holds Daniel at arm's length and looks at him seriously. "I can't," he apologizes, simultaneously congratulating and berating himself. "I can't when you're like this, Daniel, as good as it is... really good..."
Those eyes, looking back at him, go from angry to seductive again, and Tom fights away from the languorous, liquid heat trying to buckle his knees and knot his fists up in all that dark, tangled hair.
"We can't. I can't. You're drunk, or drugged or something, and I can't, I'm sorry." He takes a deep breath and, knuckles aching from effort, lets go of Daniel's shoulders.
There is a slight sway as Tom removes the support. Daniel's confused, it's clear, laying a hand to his temple and peering up at him. His eyebrows are knotted, his beautiful, lush mouth parted slightly as he studies Tom's face, looking for something - a lie, maybe, or a hidden motive. Silence stretches between them, and Tom winces, waiting.
When it comes, the movement isn't what he thought it'd be. Daniel puts a hand on his shoulder, swaying toward him, and his face softens distractedly. He gives a small laugh, just a moment's flash of a smile, and then it's gone again. "Y'know," he whispers, clearing his throat, and when he speaks again, his voice is loud enough that Tom really hears the slur for the first time. "I think... you might be right about that? Hadda gin, tasted off... someone might've..."
His brow furrows as he tries to remember, leaning against Tom so he won't fall down, and just like that, any righteous jealousy Tom might have had is gone, stolen away like breath. "All right," he says, putting an arm around Daniel's waist and pulling him close, anchoring him upright and looking around for something that might be necessary now that he's got a plan. He feels Daniel's head come down against his shoulder, feels the shift of skin and muscle as Daniel smiles and puts a free hand on Tom's chest, but there's no time for that. "Come on, then, into bed with you."
They stumble over to the bed together, off balance and holding tight. Tom's heart is pounding in his chest, he couldn't be more nervous. He helps Daniel up and watches as Daniel kneels up on the bedspread and pulls his shirt off over his head, awkward and graceless. He flops down, sprawling over the covers, letting the shirt drop from his fingertips onto the floor, and his dark lashes drop down over his eyes, his cheeks flushed pink. He breathes deep, dreaming.
Tom studies him, tries to remember anything he's learned from any health class or TV show. Should I be trying to keep you awake? No, that's concussion. Check your pulse? No, that'd make you dead. Mouth-to-mouth? Stop it, Felton.
He settles for tugging apart the lacings of Daniel's boots and letting them drop to the floor, then pulling the soft throw at the foot of the bed over Daniel's shoulders. In the pristine ensuite, he draws a glass of water, to put on the bedside table for when Daniel wakes up. But as he comes back, Daniel's awake, head raised just barely off the pillow to look around. Tom moves quickly to the bedside and sets the water down, leaning over to peer into black eyes. "Daniel?"
"Tom," he says, relieved, dropping his head back down and taking Tom's wrist loosely in his fingers. Tom drags in a breath, frozen again - still can't get used to it, Daniel Radcliffe touching him - and that soft, blurred voice drifts to his ears. "Stay. Don't leave me with them, please." The pillow steals some of the next words, Daniel's so out of it, but to Tom's ears, the tangled syllables that follow sound something like: "You're the only one that wouldn't tell..."
Oh... bloody hell.
Gently, Tom takes Daniel's fingers from around his wrist. He meets no resistance, so he heads for the door. Outside, the music echoes down the hall. It's dark outside the door, and Tom knows if he leaves, he can make it. He could slip through, unnoticed. Nobody in that pulsing, bristling pit would even see him. His fingers touch the door's edge, cool under his skin. It makes a slight click when he closes it.
It makes another slight click when he locks it.
The dark mess is outside, and he and Daniel are in. He feels his heart pounding in his chest - he doesn't want to be here. He wants to go home, to not be in a house with someone who would drug someone else at a party. This is not his place. He should not be here, and in the silence of his mind, he can admit that he is afraid.
But he will not leave Daniel here alone. He turns to look across the softly lit room, looks at Daniel sprawled across the bed, skinny shoulder and arm looking so fragile, even though Daniel is bigger than Tom. Maybe yesterday, or a month ago, or a year ago, Tom would have left. Maybe when things were not the way they are, between them. If Daniel were not so courteous, or so kind, if Daniel had snubbed him after the trailer, then perhaps...
But none of that is now. And so, reluctantly, Tom pads over to the bedside, turns off the light and goes to the desk chair. Toeing off his sneakers, he sits down and tries to get comfortable. It'll be a long night. He yawns, almost at once, leaning back against the pillowed headrest. It's been a long night already, and he's surprised at how tired he is. It takes only a few moments, and his eyes drift closed.
"Felton."
Whispered voice, dark room. Tom's eyes flutter open as he instantly becomes aware that he's very sore. It takes him a moment of panic to figure out where he is, and a hand gently rubbing his shoulder for him to remember who's in front of him.
"Daniel?"
"Who'd you think?" comes the hushed, amused reply. Warm hands grip his (ice cold) and tug softly. "Come on, get up."
Tom blinks, sleep still in his eyes, clouding his mind, but he goes along, letting Daniel pull him. "Where're we going?"
Daniel's voice from just ahead of him: "To bed, you nit. And don't argue."
It had been on the tip of his tongue to do just that, but Tom refrains. He's cold and stiff and tired and sore, and at the moment, it's all he's thinking of: soft bed, warm blanket. Sleep. So he crawls in, fully intent on mimicking Daniel's earlier face-first collapse, but he's halted mid-motion by Daniel's surprisingly strong, steady hands. He is helped up to his knees, and, just as before, Tom feels those hands edging under his t-shirt and jumper, lifting up, up, up, and then they are gone. He's cold, right away, and dimly aware that this is, for some reason, bad. But then those hands are at his back, his side, easing him down to the pillow and pulling a blanket over him, and that's just good enough to make him forget stupid voices in his head that try to tell him that good things are bad. The bed is warm, and the sheets are soft.
He is out, sleeping, even before he can feel the bed dip under Daniel's slight weight.
The gray light of dawn is coloring the room when Tom's eyes next open. He remembers, this time, where he is. He knows he did not mean to be here, that he should not be here and that his mother is likely frantic looking for him, but for some reason it all seems very distant. The house is silent in the early hours, and Tom can hear a single car roll sedately by over the pavement outside.
Tom is warm, very warm, and he knows why. Daniel is pressed up against his side, limbs draped across him, heavy. One hand is curled softly around Tom's shoulder, and he is just lifting his face, waking as Tom is waking.
"Hey." Daniel's voice is deep and slow, looking up into Tom's eyes. He looks clear - tired, but himself again.
"Hey," Tom replies, feeling the motor in his head start to rev up, the words in his head start to trickle through in advance of the pounding roar: what will he say? Am I an idiot for still being here? Should I have left? Will he... And so on.
Daniel lifts a hand and brushes his thumb over Tom's cheek, smiling softly. "Thanks for staying," he murmurs, bleary and pale in the weak light, and Tom's worry-flow is effectively shut the fuck off.
He smiles back, hesitant but real. "No worries," he says. "You'd have done the same." Daniel laughs, but it's a sick sound, wry and cynical and far too old for him. His eyes tinge bitter, miniscule tightenings around his mouth, his forehead. Tom watches, suddenly wary and suspicious. "What? You wouldn't?"
Daniel's face shifts again, lighting-quick, matching Tom's for worry. It's the actor in him, Tom is sure, that makes his emotions appear on his face this fast, but he's usually so controlled. It's rare, but Tom is certain it's genuine. "Of course I would. I just..." Daniel sighs and drops his head forward onto Tom's chest, resting there a moment.
"I just don't want to. Don't want to have to." There's that laugh again as he raises his head, that bark of derision and contempt, though Tom understands now that it's not aimed at him. "We shouldn't have to," Daniel bites off, and it is then that Tom understands: Daniel is angry, and has a right to be.
There are a dozen reactions, of course. He feels solidarity, heat, a snotty sort of moral superiority that he wishes he didn't have to acknowledge, and a sense of inclusion, of caring, of affection. He casts about for something to say, something appropriate and sympathetic, but not too much. The right thing to say, the thing that will make Daniel understand that he's not alone in this, that he is understood and yet nothing too presumptuous, something exactly right...
Tom takes a breath, and it's a good thing, because in the next moment, Daniel is reaching up to him, sliding a gentle hand under his head and pressing their lips together. Every kiss Tom's ever had from Daniel has been a total surprise. This one is firm, persistent, solid - Daniel owns it, pressed up to him from head to chest to hip to legs all tangled up in each other, and once again, Tom is not thinking. Instead, he grips Daniel's shoulder, instantly aware that neither of them is wearing a shirt. The long, soft brush of warm skin against his, sweaty where they've been resting against each other under the blankets, perversely makes him shiver. Daniel's hand comes to rest on his waist, thumb brushing his bare skin, and Tom grips harder, pressing up, needing.
They taste sleep and licorice, gin and soda. Dissolution, and innocence. Between them, they trap these things - what they should have been and can't be; what they shouldn't do, but must. In these moments, stolen when the world is sleeping and nobody is watching, only now they can be what they are.
Later, Tom will go home, still tasting Daniel's mouth on his lips. He will be grounded, and he will not be allowed a good many privileges. He will lie to his mother about where he was, and he will come to work and school every day and behave himself until she lets up. He will discover that Grint checked in on Daniel in the middle of the night and woke him up, but that Daniel did it all from the door and never said a word. Grint went home, never knowing that Tom was there. Tom will also discover that nobody on set who was at the party remembers him being there, or if they do, they don't care to say anything about it. And so, for most of the world, nothing will change. Tom will suffer for a while, but in silence.
This time, things are different. And, for Tom, it will have been worth it to be the hero, even if just for a night.
If you are part of my real life, go away. Or, know this: I am going to hell. To. Hell. (Note the subtle code above.) And unless you want to come with me, you turn right around and march your butt back to whatever it was you were doing before. Y'hear? *looks at you sternly*
Pairing: TR/DF
Warnings: underage.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, don't know the people involved, none of this ever happened, what a ridiculous notion. What are you, some kind of pervert?
Notes: Beta'd by
stoney321. I LOVE her. Teh roxxor, really.SIX MONTHS LATER
I'm clearly mental.
Tom stands in front of the mirror, trying to get his white-blond hair to help him look in any way like a decent person. This is the second go at it - he put too much gel in last time and wound up with Draco's skullcap, and had to go shower. He's already late, and his mother is waiting impatiently downstairs; he can hear her pacing, jingling the car keys as she fidgets with them. "Thomas, hurry up, darling! It's ten past!"
"Coming, mum!" He scrubs his fingers through his hair, trying to get it to lie down, but the stubborn cowlicks twist and curl where they shouldn't. He can never work the magic that the makeup girls do. He'll come home with softly falling, baby-fine hair, and when he steps out of the shower in the morning, it's the same spiky mess it always is. There's no reason he should be bothering, really. He just... wants to look nice when he stalks angrily out, which he'll certainly do. The invitation had to be a mistake, and when he gets there, he's sure he'll be met with... well, something unpleasant.
"Tom!"
He faces himself in the mirror, looking into his own eyes. "Right. Come on, let's get it over with." He picks up his jumper and shrugs into it, the tastefully wrapped present tucked inside where it can't be seen.
His mother thinks he's going to a friend's for a late-night study session. She doesn't know that last Friday's pleasant little sociable hadn't been Radcliffe's real birthday party.
Everyone's parents had carefully stayed out of it to a degree, trying to be tolerant and reasonable and modern, but of course it hadn't been an actual party. Just more studio politics, with the cast invited and certain important people's kids, and they'd all been expected to at least be civil. Tom had passed some time chatting with Genevieve, Josh and Jamie, but they'd made easier friends among the cast than he had. Genevieve, in particular, had taken pains to be extra sweet to Emma - no hard feelings, ha, isn't it a laugh, Pansy Parkinson and Hermione Granger at a party - and of course Emma had responded with her usual grace and charm. Tom hadn't begrudged Genevieve. Of course he wouldn't. So they'd wound up drifting apart, and Tom had wandered alone for a while, listening politely at the edges of people's conversations.
Emma, Grint and Radcliffe, of course, had been completely inseparable. You might have gotten one away from the others - Emma to talk with the girls, or Rupert to chum around with the group around the television - but Radcliffe might as well have handcuffed himself to one or another of them.
Not that Tom would have wanted to get him alone, no, no cause for that. He'd done exactly as he should: left his gift-wrapped six part Star Wars box set on the table with the other gifts and managed a reasonably friendly nod-and-smile when Daniel opened it up. It was a little cheesy, maybe, but it did make an amicable nod to the five seconds they'd spent alone in each other's company. At the same time, though, it was something you'd buy for an acquaintance, a co-worker. Inoffensive, surely.
For about a half a second, he'd thought he'd made a grave mistake. The tension in the air was palpable as Daniel's hands stilled in the act of tearing off the paper, revealing what lay beneath. Threads of it ran between the two of them, and he'd been sure everyone else would immediately be able to tell. Daniel's eyes had been deep and dark for that moment, searching his with intent. Tom had been unable to move, to react - deer in the headlights.
"Brilliant," Radcliffe finally pronounced, and smiled pleasantly. "I was waiting for the set to come out."
"I know," Tom had said, talking without really thinking about what he was saying. "I checked with your mum first."
Radcliffe just nodded and gave that pleasant, kosher smile again. "Thanks," he said, (oh, brilliant, checked with his mum, because I like to check up on him and I'm the best of friends with his mother. Just fucking brilliant, Tom...) but though he seemed sincere, it was only moments before the whirlwind took him up again. People pushed more presents into his hands and clamored for his attention, just as they always did, and Tom gracefully bowed back into the noise and left the party a half hour later, begging a headache.
He'd stuffed the jealousy down with a skill born of practice.
They'd never really met again after that night - not the same way. It turned out to be impossible to plan something like... well, like that. Every time Tom tried to find his way to Daniel in a quiet moment to talk, something would come up and they'd be dragged apart to make-up or line readings or school - whatever. If Daniel had tried to get away to see him, it hadn't worked.
But of course, Tom never actually saw him trying. Daniel was irritatingly nonchalant about the whole thing, not a single solid, perceptible difference about him. He didn't seem any different, never said anything unusual or out of character. He acted, ultimately, as though nothing had ever happened.
Unless, of course, one just so happened to be Tom.
Never once did he get the idea that Daniel had forgotten about it. The secret knowledge of it would be there, in his eyes, when they were reading together. It'd be there when they saw each other in the mornings, when he would set a coffee down next to Tom's elbow before sitting down with his own. It was there in the second's extra touch when they passed pencils or Quidditch brooms between them.
Oh, it's clear as day, Tom would think, sipping at the coffee and glaring at Daniel across the table. Plain as the nose on your face. In the way that's sure to make me sound like a ravening madman the second I try to explain it to anybody. Bastard.
Now, it was a terrible idea, of course. Anybody would know that. The very thought was laughable - he and Dan Radcliffe! Preposterous. The whole world knew them, watched them, but if that wasn't bad enough, they would be working together for years to come, if all went well. Tom couldn't afford this. It just wasn't on.
He'd almost convinced himself of that - and more importantly, that Radcliffe had come to the same obvious conclusion - when he'd found the plain white envelope on his dressing desk in the Slytherin trailer. He'd opened it curiously, read it with disbelief and finally guiltily stuffed the whole thing, envelope and all, into his pocket.
Come to the dark side on 30 July. My place, ten-ish.
While the Council's away, the Jedi will play.
Ben
So, somewhere between there and here, Tom finds himself making his way through the darkened city streets that lead away from his mother-sanctioned location, hood pulled up so he won't be recognized. He knows Daniel's parents are away. He knows it's a select party, and he doesn't know who'll be there. He pushes the third button on the entry wall of the Radcliffes' posh flat and, almost immediately, the door buzzes at him angrily. Tom climbs the stairs, three flights of elegant grandeur, and creeps down the hall, feeling like a burglar. He isn't meant to be here.
The door bursts open before he reaches it, freezing him in his tracks. Three people he only barely knows stumble out on a wave of throbbing music, reeling in each other's arms, laughing and flushed. They are older than he is. He stands aside to let them pass, which they do, not even seeming to notice him. He recognizes one - a Hufflepuff extra - but he doesn't say anything to her, and she doesn't seem to see him. They go off down the hall, three together, with arms slung around each others' shoulders, passing a bottle of water and saying things to each other that Tom doesn't understand, or isn't supposed to, anyway.
Once they're safely in the lift, Tom ducks in the open door and closes it carefully behind him.
The party's in full swing, the room darkened; it's heavy with the sweet scent of booze and fresh sweat. They've turned down the lights, and someone's replaced one bulb with a red one that paints the upturned faces in livid light and shadows. Some thick, rich music is playing, a rhythmic synonym for sex. People are necking in the corners, on the couches, and there's a makeshift dance floor where the coffee table and the area rug should be. Everyone's hands are everywhere - he can see the pale flashes of skin on black clothes.
He did not expect this.
His collar sticks to the nape of his neck as his skin flushes. He would worry about blushing, but he knows his face would be red from the light alone, so that's a small blessing. He digs his hands into his pockets and ducks his head, painfully conscious of his bright hair like a beacon in the dark. He doesn't want to be seen, not yet - but he can't resist looking around, seeing the faces. He's trying to recognize people, find someone he knows. He almost hopes he doesn't. Anyone he knows would also know he doesn't belong here. This isn't his kind of thing. Parties, sure, but everyone here is...
There's no sign of most of the main cast, but there's a bunch of extras and crew members. There're people Tom's never seen before, and he figures maybe they're Daniel's friends from before the movies. Of course he had some, and of course they're still here - not only is Radcliffe the kind that makes friends easily, he's also rich and handsome. He can have any friend he wants. Tom even spots some people in the crowd that he's never seen in person before - just on TV.
He really did not expect this.
His mind wars between embarrassment and jealous anger. He shouldn't be here, he should go home right now. He should just go to the store and call his mother, she'd come to get him. Maybe he'd have to take a grounding, but he'd manage that all right. He'd think of something to tell her, something plausible. Maybe a rave, or an orgy... or...
Or anything that wasn't Radcliffe's birthday party.
Stumbling into the kitchen, blind but for the need to escape the heat-filled living room, he finds Grint talking to a pair of girls. They're gazing at him adoringly, one on each side as he leans back against the counter - he's a movie star, he knows it. Grint looks put together, trendy clothes and messy, professionally tousled coif. The beer in his hand doesn't look a bit out of place. For that matter, neither does he.
"Tom," Grint says, wide-eyed and surprised. He glances over Tom in his trainers and unruly hair, his new blue jeans and Daniel's jumper. It's plain enough, what he thinks.
Next time you feel the urge to wear that look, Grint, you just let me know. I'll wear a sodding chicken outfit, and then it'll really be worth it.
"What're you doing here?" The girls titter quietly while Rupert seems to realize what he's said and fumbles to backpedal, stuttering over ‘I mean's and ‘I was trying to say's. Part of his charm, that. Tom thinks he does his awkward, klutzy, affable bloke act at least partially on purpose.
"It's okay," Tom says hastily, putting a hand up to forestall a slew of words that won't mean anything. "I was just leaving."
Rupert fumbles a bit, but Tom's already turning.
There'll be pay phone on the street. He won't stay here, not another minute. He digs in the pocket of the jumper for some change, and his fingers bump against the little package he brought, wrapped in bright paper. He shakes his head wryly, trying to keep the fear under control.
Someone knocks into him as he picks his way through the living room, pressing hot and big into his side, and Tom pushes the guy off him. It's a big, meaty face that glowers down, sneering at him as he stumbles off, and Tom feels the heat pressing in on him, people so close in the lush, dark room. It's claustrophobic, there's too many people, not enough air, and he's just in the process of spinning around to make a sprint for the door when he's brought up short by...
"Daniel."
Right in front of him, standing up from one of the couches and reaching for him, he comes. He sets a tumbler full of something fizzy and surely alcoholic down on a glass table and smiles. Tom can't look away from his eyes. He looks like a satyr in the red haze around him, his lips slightly parted, amused and knowing quirk at the corner. The music pounds around them, suddenly thrumming in Tom's veins, and Daniel slides up to him and puts his slender arms around Tom's neck. He leans in to be heard over the music, and his lips brush Tom's ear, too intimate.
"Glad you could come."
Tom's frozen again, his skin buzzing, searing where Daniel's mouth touched him. He's hard already, his hands settling on the slender waist, smooth belly sliding against his, under t-shirts. Daniel must be able to feel it, but either he hasn't guessed what he feels or... or he has guessed. And he's still...
Daniel pulls back just a little, his wrists still around Tom's neck, his hips still pressing in. He doesn't go far; just enough to get them face to face. The shadows slant across his face so Tom can't see his eyes. He can, however, see the soft, faintly wicked smile that plays at the corners of Daniel's mouth. There are so many people here, so many eyes watching, but if there weren't, Tom might take Daniel's face between his hands, force him to look up at a light so Tom could see.
Gently, Daniel starts to dance.
They're subtle, small movements. Slight shifts of Daniel's legs make his whole body undulate, press in perfect time with the music against Tom's legs, his hips, his belly. It's hard to breathe. Tom can feel the little twinges in pressure, the soft slide of Daniel's skin against the nape of his neck, the totally inappropriate pressure between them. His head is screaming twenty things, but all he does is stand there, hands loosely gripping Daniel's waist, eyes searching.
He doesn't know what he expects to find, but if it will explain this in any way, it'll be worth it.
Daniel inches closer to him, lets his forehead press against Tom's. "I like you," he breathes, whispered confession. One of his hands slides up into Tom's hair and Tom feels him stroking a feathery blond lock. Daniel's sweating from the heat and the scent of it makes Tom hungry, or something like it. He wants to pull Daniel to him, taste that sweat and follow it down. He wants to push away and run like the devil's after him.
"Come on," Daniel whispers, sliding a hand down to Tom's and pulling away slightly, tugging on his fingers. "Come with me." His dark hair falls in his shadowed eyes, curls damply at the nape of his neck, at his temples.
Holding onto Daniel's hand, Tom tries to shake off the spell he's under, tries to focus. Going anywhere that isn't this room feels, instinctively, like a good idea. Yes, he has come to hate this room. But Daniel leads him off through the crowd, weaving through people who smile at them knowingly, and as the lights dim from glowing red hell to gilded study to dim hallway, Tom begins to suspect he's made a mistake. As the music fades behind them, the people thin out and then disappear, and Tom feels his palm sweating, more nervous than the rest of him.
Daniel bloody Radcliffe is holding my hand.
He can't explain it, it shouldn't be possible on this planet, and surely something's amiss, out of sorts, but he can't put his finger on it... and then Daniel opens a door, and there is light. Tom can see.
And instantly, he wishes he couldn't.
It's a well-appointed bedroom. Whatever Tom was expecting, this isn't it: slick black furnishings, light and airy, very modern. Low lamps glow softly on the bedside tables, the tan carpet picking up gold highlights. The bloody place is Hoovered, immaculate. Radcliffe tugs on his hand, and Tom moves forward before he can stop himself. It is then that he sees the sanctum.
Radcliffe has, one presumes, a desk. It must lurk somewhere under that pile of... stuff. Amongst the detritus, Tom spies sheet music, thick guitar picks, CD cases and, inevitably, the cherished iPod. He realizes, standing in the room and staring like an idiot, that he's never seen that thing not attached to Radcliffe somehow, and to see it lying out, unattended, is somehow very private.
Personal.
Intimate.
He jumps when he feels a hand glide softly up his back, fingertips barely brushing his skin. "I remember this," Daniel says dreamily, and Tom turns around to face him, more than a little gobsmacked. Daniel doesn't notice, just lets his hand hover softly over Tom's shoulder blade, bicep, and then chest, moving with him, barely there. "I gave this to you," he says, relaxed and hushed, taking a cold metal half-a-zipper between his fingers and rubbing his thumb over the points, so Tom can feel the tug against his neck. The light falls in soft, quilted shadows over Daniel's fingers, his tilted face, the space between them that's warming in their mingled presence.
"Yeah." The word has to be dragged from his throat, he's so unsure he should be talking at all. Still, though, something is off, beyond even being here. Forgetting for a moment that he is unsure of himself, Tom takes Daniel's chin and tips his face up to the light.
As he suspected, Daniel's huge black eyes are liquid and bottomless. In the moment he has to think, he realizes the worst is true, and then Daniel's hands are tangling in his jacket and t-shirt and he is being pulled down, down to those impossibly red lips, and it all goes arse over teakettle as their lips touch, fingers in his hair, heat and urgency, and the answering hardness pressing against his belly, just right, overwhelming and perfect...
Daniel's pupils did not dilate.
Tom pulls away, gasping and ragged already, gripping Daniel's arm too tight. Hands around bony shoulders, he holds Daniel at arm's length and looks at him seriously. "I can't," he apologizes, simultaneously congratulating and berating himself. "I can't when you're like this, Daniel, as good as it is... really good..."
Those eyes, looking back at him, go from angry to seductive again, and Tom fights away from the languorous, liquid heat trying to buckle his knees and knot his fists up in all that dark, tangled hair.
"We can't. I can't. You're drunk, or drugged or something, and I can't, I'm sorry." He takes a deep breath and, knuckles aching from effort, lets go of Daniel's shoulders.
There is a slight sway as Tom removes the support. Daniel's confused, it's clear, laying a hand to his temple and peering up at him. His eyebrows are knotted, his beautiful, lush mouth parted slightly as he studies Tom's face, looking for something - a lie, maybe, or a hidden motive. Silence stretches between them, and Tom winces, waiting.
When it comes, the movement isn't what he thought it'd be. Daniel puts a hand on his shoulder, swaying toward him, and his face softens distractedly. He gives a small laugh, just a moment's flash of a smile, and then it's gone again. "Y'know," he whispers, clearing his throat, and when he speaks again, his voice is loud enough that Tom really hears the slur for the first time. "I think... you might be right about that? Hadda gin, tasted off... someone might've..."
His brow furrows as he tries to remember, leaning against Tom so he won't fall down, and just like that, any righteous jealousy Tom might have had is gone, stolen away like breath. "All right," he says, putting an arm around Daniel's waist and pulling him close, anchoring him upright and looking around for something that might be necessary now that he's got a plan. He feels Daniel's head come down against his shoulder, feels the shift of skin and muscle as Daniel smiles and puts a free hand on Tom's chest, but there's no time for that. "Come on, then, into bed with you."
They stumble over to the bed together, off balance and holding tight. Tom's heart is pounding in his chest, he couldn't be more nervous. He helps Daniel up and watches as Daniel kneels up on the bedspread and pulls his shirt off over his head, awkward and graceless. He flops down, sprawling over the covers, letting the shirt drop from his fingertips onto the floor, and his dark lashes drop down over his eyes, his cheeks flushed pink. He breathes deep, dreaming.
Tom studies him, tries to remember anything he's learned from any health class or TV show. Should I be trying to keep you awake? No, that's concussion. Check your pulse? No, that'd make you dead. Mouth-to-mouth? Stop it, Felton.
He settles for tugging apart the lacings of Daniel's boots and letting them drop to the floor, then pulling the soft throw at the foot of the bed over Daniel's shoulders. In the pristine ensuite, he draws a glass of water, to put on the bedside table for when Daniel wakes up. But as he comes back, Daniel's awake, head raised just barely off the pillow to look around. Tom moves quickly to the bedside and sets the water down, leaning over to peer into black eyes. "Daniel?"
"Tom," he says, relieved, dropping his head back down and taking Tom's wrist loosely in his fingers. Tom drags in a breath, frozen again - still can't get used to it, Daniel Radcliffe touching him - and that soft, blurred voice drifts to his ears. "Stay. Don't leave me with them, please." The pillow steals some of the next words, Daniel's so out of it, but to Tom's ears, the tangled syllables that follow sound something like: "You're the only one that wouldn't tell..."
Oh... bloody hell.
Gently, Tom takes Daniel's fingers from around his wrist. He meets no resistance, so he heads for the door. Outside, the music echoes down the hall. It's dark outside the door, and Tom knows if he leaves, he can make it. He could slip through, unnoticed. Nobody in that pulsing, bristling pit would even see him. His fingers touch the door's edge, cool under his skin. It makes a slight click when he closes it.
It makes another slight click when he locks it.
The dark mess is outside, and he and Daniel are in. He feels his heart pounding in his chest - he doesn't want to be here. He wants to go home, to not be in a house with someone who would drug someone else at a party. This is not his place. He should not be here, and in the silence of his mind, he can admit that he is afraid.
But he will not leave Daniel here alone. He turns to look across the softly lit room, looks at Daniel sprawled across the bed, skinny shoulder and arm looking so fragile, even though Daniel is bigger than Tom. Maybe yesterday, or a month ago, or a year ago, Tom would have left. Maybe when things were not the way they are, between them. If Daniel were not so courteous, or so kind, if Daniel had snubbed him after the trailer, then perhaps...
But none of that is now. And so, reluctantly, Tom pads over to the bedside, turns off the light and goes to the desk chair. Toeing off his sneakers, he sits down and tries to get comfortable. It'll be a long night. He yawns, almost at once, leaning back against the pillowed headrest. It's been a long night already, and he's surprised at how tired he is. It takes only a few moments, and his eyes drift closed.
"Felton."
Whispered voice, dark room. Tom's eyes flutter open as he instantly becomes aware that he's very sore. It takes him a moment of panic to figure out where he is, and a hand gently rubbing his shoulder for him to remember who's in front of him.
"Daniel?"
"Who'd you think?" comes the hushed, amused reply. Warm hands grip his (ice cold) and tug softly. "Come on, get up."
Tom blinks, sleep still in his eyes, clouding his mind, but he goes along, letting Daniel pull him. "Where're we going?"
Daniel's voice from just ahead of him: "To bed, you nit. And don't argue."
It had been on the tip of his tongue to do just that, but Tom refrains. He's cold and stiff and tired and sore, and at the moment, it's all he's thinking of: soft bed, warm blanket. Sleep. So he crawls in, fully intent on mimicking Daniel's earlier face-first collapse, but he's halted mid-motion by Daniel's surprisingly strong, steady hands. He is helped up to his knees, and, just as before, Tom feels those hands edging under his t-shirt and jumper, lifting up, up, up, and then they are gone. He's cold, right away, and dimly aware that this is, for some reason, bad. But then those hands are at his back, his side, easing him down to the pillow and pulling a blanket over him, and that's just good enough to make him forget stupid voices in his head that try to tell him that good things are bad. The bed is warm, and the sheets are soft.
He is out, sleeping, even before he can feel the bed dip under Daniel's slight weight.
The gray light of dawn is coloring the room when Tom's eyes next open. He remembers, this time, where he is. He knows he did not mean to be here, that he should not be here and that his mother is likely frantic looking for him, but for some reason it all seems very distant. The house is silent in the early hours, and Tom can hear a single car roll sedately by over the pavement outside.
Tom is warm, very warm, and he knows why. Daniel is pressed up against his side, limbs draped across him, heavy. One hand is curled softly around Tom's shoulder, and he is just lifting his face, waking as Tom is waking.
"Hey." Daniel's voice is deep and slow, looking up into Tom's eyes. He looks clear - tired, but himself again.
"Hey," Tom replies, feeling the motor in his head start to rev up, the words in his head start to trickle through in advance of the pounding roar: what will he say? Am I an idiot for still being here? Should I have left? Will he... And so on.
Daniel lifts a hand and brushes his thumb over Tom's cheek, smiling softly. "Thanks for staying," he murmurs, bleary and pale in the weak light, and Tom's worry-flow is effectively shut the fuck off.
He smiles back, hesitant but real. "No worries," he says. "You'd have done the same." Daniel laughs, but it's a sick sound, wry and cynical and far too old for him. His eyes tinge bitter, miniscule tightenings around his mouth, his forehead. Tom watches, suddenly wary and suspicious. "What? You wouldn't?"
Daniel's face shifts again, lighting-quick, matching Tom's for worry. It's the actor in him, Tom is sure, that makes his emotions appear on his face this fast, but he's usually so controlled. It's rare, but Tom is certain it's genuine. "Of course I would. I just..." Daniel sighs and drops his head forward onto Tom's chest, resting there a moment.
"I just don't want to. Don't want to have to." There's that laugh again as he raises his head, that bark of derision and contempt, though Tom understands now that it's not aimed at him. "We shouldn't have to," Daniel bites off, and it is then that Tom understands: Daniel is angry, and has a right to be.
There are a dozen reactions, of course. He feels solidarity, heat, a snotty sort of moral superiority that he wishes he didn't have to acknowledge, and a sense of inclusion, of caring, of affection. He casts about for something to say, something appropriate and sympathetic, but not too much. The right thing to say, the thing that will make Daniel understand that he's not alone in this, that he is understood and yet nothing too presumptuous, something exactly right...
Tom takes a breath, and it's a good thing, because in the next moment, Daniel is reaching up to him, sliding a gentle hand under his head and pressing their lips together. Every kiss Tom's ever had from Daniel has been a total surprise. This one is firm, persistent, solid - Daniel owns it, pressed up to him from head to chest to hip to legs all tangled up in each other, and once again, Tom is not thinking. Instead, he grips Daniel's shoulder, instantly aware that neither of them is wearing a shirt. The long, soft brush of warm skin against his, sweaty where they've been resting against each other under the blankets, perversely makes him shiver. Daniel's hand comes to rest on his waist, thumb brushing his bare skin, and Tom grips harder, pressing up, needing.
They taste sleep and licorice, gin and soda. Dissolution, and innocence. Between them, they trap these things - what they should have been and can't be; what they shouldn't do, but must. In these moments, stolen when the world is sleeping and nobody is watching, only now they can be what they are.
Later, Tom will go home, still tasting Daniel's mouth on his lips. He will be grounded, and he will not be allowed a good many privileges. He will lie to his mother about where he was, and he will come to work and school every day and behave himself until she lets up. He will discover that Grint checked in on Daniel in the middle of the night and woke him up, but that Daniel did it all from the door and never said a word. Grint went home, never knowing that Tom was there. Tom will also discover that nobody on set who was at the party remembers him being there, or if they do, they don't care to say anything about it. And so, for most of the world, nothing will change. Tom will suffer for a while, but in silence.
This time, things are different. And, for Tom, it will have been worth it to be the hero, even if just for a night.
