Tomarry + 11 from ask meme 😊
lmaooo this request was from like over a month ago bc ive been stalling for some reason. legit idk why this took me like half an hour to type out and edit. anyway yeah um enjoy? ig
edit: this is from the prompt “things u said when u were drunk” from an ask meme
All it takes is one call.
He can tell Harry is drunk from the slur to his words, the impassioned lilt in everything that comes out of his mouth. The backgroud is loud and pulsing with some generic electro-pop that ensures Tom never accompanies Harry to these types of parties. He asks Tom to come pick him up, says that he doesn’t trust anyone else to get him home safely, and it is as if the boy knows exactly what buttons to push because he has his car keys in his hand before the call even ends.
The drive is short, which means he doesn’t have enough time to prepare himself for a drunk and dishevelled Harry to flop into his car like a fish out of water, mumbling apologises and praises all in one breath. Distracted by both his guilt and worship, Harry cannot seem to strap himself in. He becomes another person—less noisy, less annoying, less of everything that makes him him—when he is like this, filled full of vodka and whatever drugs he can get his hands on. Tom needs to manually exit his car, walk around the front, open Harry’s door and manipualte his body into the proper position.
“Thank you,” Harry whispers when Tom turns to him, their faces less than a metre apart. He can see the pure green of his unfocused eyes, hazy with alcohol and adrenalin. “For—for everything, Tom. You’re my best friend.” He sounds choked up, and he wants nothing more than to tuck him into bed, away from his uncultured friends and their horribly loud parties. He can hear the music from where he parked down the road, still that generic rubbish they insist on playing.
“You’re my best friend as well, Harry,” Tom says sincerily. And it’s true. Harry is his best friend, the only person he could imagien calling friend.
“But i-it’s not just that, Tom, you know. You’re smart and ambitious and you—you love me,” he says. His eyes come into focus then like a dream. “You love me,” he repeats, and it is full of wonder.
“I do love you, Harry. More than anything.” It is the closest he will allow himself to the truth, now when his friend, always a friend, will not remeber this hazy September night, full of whispered confessions of devotion and decay. He does not simply love Harry. He adores him, he could not imagine a world without him. What are zealous psychophants and a political campaign in the face of this beautiful boy?
So yes, Tom will tell Harry he loves him, because he will not remember in the morning and they can go back to a world where Harry will always be his, where the idea of love does not terrify him to the bone.
“I—I love you too, you know. I never know how to—say it, because you’re so bright sometimes. And it blinds me, Tom. You blind me, like the sun after an overcast day, and I-I don’t know if I ever want to see again if I can’t see you.”
Harry is crying now, the tears streaming silently down his face. Tom swipes at them with the pads of his thumbs, leaving a mess of tears on his rouged-dusted cheekbones, and lets his hands stay.
He does not know who leans in first, but he does know who pulls away first. It is the stench of alcohol, that tempress, on Harry’s breath that pulls him out from under his spell. He holds Harry’s face an inch from his own, their lips so close Tom feels drunk on him, their eyes locked.
It is not much a battle as Harry’s eyes have remained unfocused, half-lidded, as if on the edge of consciousness. He does not require much strength to pull away completely, letting this Harry’s messy head fall back against the headrest.
He says, and he shuts the car door.
