Chapter Text
“I don’t get it! Why do they do that?” Tom said as he paid for his meal and lifted his tray of food. His blue eyes searched the poky canteen until he found an empty table, which he claimed with his eyes. You followed behind him, carrying your own tray with nothing but a number plaque and utensils.
“Everyone loves a spectacle, Tom,” you sighed, trying your best to block images of the event he was referring to from your mind. “And it’s tradition.”
He gave you a look as he set his tray down, as if to say that the reasons you gave didn’t justify anything. You shrugged; there was no other way you could try to explain the Oblation Run. All there was to it was a bunch of rowdy frat boys in masks and balaclavas, running around the campus whilst stark naked to the interested gaze of many a student. And disapproving as you were of institutions that initiated their members through violence, you liked how every year, the run had a different protest message that responded to the latest social issue that shook your island nation. If you’re going to make a scene, might as well speak of social justice while you’re at it.
“Where’s your food?” Tom asked, glancing at your empty tray. As if on queue, a member of the staff working at the canteen approached your table, and in one fluid movement, the employee took your number plaque and set down a sizzling hotplate in front of you. On the sizzling plate was steamed white rice and juicy pork topped with an over-easy fried egg, and the smell that wafted from the cast iron plate made Tom regret choosing the sinigang instead of what you got.
“What’s that?” he asked as you mixed the egg into the pork to cook it, nearly forgetting to squeeze in that slice of calamansi that always came with the dish. You beamed at him.
“Pork sisig , Tom,” you replied smugly as you saw envy glimmer in his eyes. “A Rodic’s special. Do you want to try?” you asked him, packing a spoon with the steaming viand and some rice and holding it up near his mouth. He opened his mouth and took the morsel in, and he closed his lips as he chewed thoughtfully, his eyebrows furrowed in thought. But his eyes soon widened with awe as the spice of the chili and acid of the calamansi cut through the salty, rich taste of pork.
“This is amazing!” He exclaimed, and you chuckled lightly, amused by his reaction.
As the two of you ate and chatted away, the other diners in the canteen looked on at the both of you, not exactly sure what opinion to form. One one hand, there was a young, Caucasian man with curly, blond hair who, despite still having the pudge of youth on his face, obviously had the looks of a Greek god; and on the other was a significantly shorter local girl who wasn’t necessarily attractive, at least not by Filipino standards. It was an unusual pairing in their eyes, and hushed tongues wagged at the world of possibilities, trying their best to reach some plausible link between the two of you. Are they just classmates in a General Education subject? Are they friends? Are they… together? Unbeknownst to you, the girls in the room who threw pointed glances your way grimaced at the thought that you could ever be anything romantic with Tom; how could they possibly approve, when they believed that you were usurping their rightful place?
To be fair, even you thought, most of the time, that you were quite a curious pair. You weren’t quite sure how you got so close to Tom, but you knew how it began.
It was a sweltering early afternoon in mid-June. The new semester had just begun, and you were in the building of the College of Arts and Letters, stuck in a classroom with no air conditioner. The professor in front of you droned on about the class syllabus and his academic merits; the first one, you had already read, yet you wish you cared enough to pay attention to the second one. Instead of listening to your professor, who was now telling stories about the doctorate degree he got in Spain, you decided to let your mind drift off to the things you had to do after class.
Online and manual registration was already over, but your schedule was yet to be finalised. Classes had already begun, and hectic enough as they were, you still had to squeeze in “prerog”, which is what everyone called the dreaded “teacher’s prerogative” part of the enrolment process. It was a necessary evil in the system, borne out of the randomised method used by the computerised registration system (CRS for short) to determine the classes that you had a slot in for a given semester. There were two runs on the online system, which were meant to give other students extra chances to get the classes they need, and even a manual registration system. Most of the time, however, the system rarely gave you everything you needed, so you had to fight tooth and nail to get the classes you wanted to have for the semester if you weren’t one of the lucky ones that the system poured its blessings upon.
Prerog, therefore, was the last resort for students who wanted to get into a class. It was a sneaky workaround in the system that was a legacy of the university’s prized “academic freedom”. Students would approach their instructors with the hopes of being added into the class roster even if the class had already reached its maximum number of slots. The prerog process was a rite of passage for every student in your university, and yet everyone hated it as well, since the methodologies that teachers employed were bizarre, to say the least. Some professors threw students’ ID’s in the air, and the students whose ID’s landed face-up were accepted into their classes; some had the students sing or dance for them, like an impromptu talent show; you even heard stories of students breaking down to their professors just so that they can get into a class and make their midyear terms a little lighter.
That semester, the almighty CRS graced you with most of your classes, save for PE —which seemed to never have enough classes for the entire student body— and a majors class on chemical process industries. You were a Chemical Engineering major entering the fourth year of your five year stay, and you really wanted to graduate on time. And the first step to graduating on time was, of course, getting the classes you needed for that semester.
The bell rang, its shrill sound cutting off both the professor and your train of thought. All your classes for the day had ended, and you rushed out of the building, hoping against hope that maybe you could snag one of those elusive PE classes at the Vanguard. But the heat beat down on you fiercely, only adding to your lightheadedness caused by your empty stomach.
You weren’t the only one who was worse for wear, though; standing a few paces in front of you was a tall, skinny whip of a foreign thing looking at a piece of paper with a muddled expression crossing his face. He scratched his head through his wild mop of unruly, blond curls, as if he was trying to decipher a language that had been lost to time. The boy was so engrossed in his bewilderment that he failed to notice how intently you looked at him.
You walked up to him. An unstoppable feeling of curiosity lapped at your mind as to who he was, grounding your consciousness on the way the sunlight shone through his hair and made it golden. Suddenly, a pang of compassion seized you as you looked with interest at his confused (and handsome) face; you recalled the times when you were a stranger to this university, and how you wished someone made time out of their busy life to guide you patiently through the rough and unyielding ropes that held your university together.
“Do you need help?” you asked him, moved by a sudden impulse to help him.
He looked up. “Yes, actually,” he said sheepishly. “I need to get a PE class because CRS didn’t give me one, and I was told to go through... prerog, is that how you call it? I’m supposed to go to this place, but I don’t know where it is,” he said, pointing to the piece of paper in his hand. You recognised the handwriting on the paper; it was the penmanship of one of the secretaries at the office of the registrar, who had hastily scrawled out a map to the Vanguard.
“UP Vanguard?” you asked him, and he nodded. “I’m on my way there myself. Would you like me to walk with you to it?”
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“It’s better than getting lost,” you quipped, and he chuckled. To be honest, the summer break had wiped your sense of direction around the campus, but you felt confident enough to walk there whilst acting like you knew the way.
“I’m Tom, by the way,” he said, extending his hand out to you. You shook it as you told him your name, and he smiled. “Should we start walking then?” he said, already walking ahead of you into the sidewalk.
The heat of the day pierced through the rubber soles of your trainers, and you regretted not telling Tom that there were jeepneys whose routes ran in circles from CAL to the Vanguard. It didn’t help that his legs were so much longer than yours, so much so that you had to jog just to catch up to him. What made the treacherous walk worthwhile for you was that Tom told you his life story on the way: that he was from England; that his father was a scientist who was invited to join a drug design research team on campus by the national health and science departments; and that he, Tom, decided to study Drama in your university until his dad’s research project ended in December. Simple story as it was, you revelled in his English accent and his gift of gab, and the way he unfolded his life out to you only made you eager to know him even better.
Before you knew it, your feet had led the both of you to the Vanguard. The Vanguard was an old building, its once cinder grey exterior having darkened over the past few decades, giving it a very ominous feel. You walked up the steps into the building, and all eyes there were drawn to Tom, like moths to a flame.
“What class are you thinking of getting a slot for, by the way?” Tom asked as his long legs made quick work of the stairs.
“Any class that would take me in, to be honest,” you replied, genuinely believing that you would. Even if it was the most humiliating PE on campus, like the striptease aerobics class, you would take those infinite pains —and by God, they would be infinite— if it meant graduating on time.
As you reached the top of the stairs, a middle-aged lady approached Tom with a vivaciously inquisitive look in her eyes.
“Are you here to prerog for a PE class?” she said to Tom, and with how ignored you were, you felt like you were slowly sinking into the wall. You wondered how you could emulate the peeling paint in an effort to fit in.
“Yes, actually, This is--” Tom began to say, meaning to introduce you, but the lady had cut him off with yet another question.
“You look like you have a dancer’s body! Do you dance?”
“I learnt a little bit of swing before,” Tom replied bashfully, a delectable shade of pink crawling up to the apples of his cheeks.
“That’s great news then!” she said, taking Tom’s hand and shaking it vigourously. “I’m the instructor for Latin Ballroom Dancing! My class is full, but it would be such a waste to not include you. Come, sign up!” she said, taking the hand she was shaking to lead it to the sign up sheet.
“Ma’am,” Tom said, staying where he stood. The instructor stopped in her tracks, looking back at the boy. “Apologies for being so bold, but I’ll only accept your invitation if I can bring my plus one,” he said, motioning to you.
And just like that, you were able to prerog into a PE class. The other students huddled up near a doorway, who were waiting for the instructor to return from her distraction, stared at the both of you in awe as you practically skipped to the front of the queue. One even retorted that there was a line, and the instructor snapped back, saying that it was her choice if she wanted to accept extra students into a class or not. As the teacher signed both of your prerog forms, a part of you felt that it was unfair for you to have an undue advantage over everyone else simply by being with the tall, gorgeous foreigner who made Michelangelo's David look like a sham.
By the time you got out of the Vanguard, the afternoon had already begun its approach to the evening, the sun casting a golden glow on the tops of the trees.
“That’s prerog sorted, then,” Tom said, clearly pleased with himself as he put his form away in his bag.
“Not for me,” you sighed wistfully. Whilst the PE instructor was chatting Tom up about the other dances he knew as an excuse to look at him, you had received a series of texts from your friends in the block. They all said the same bad news: try as they did to prerog into the chemical process industries class, the professor was unflinching in his refusal to admit extra students. He was a visiting professor, they said, and that while this was the only class he was teaching, he was a busy man who didn’t want to add to his workload. Still, you wanted to try to prerog in his class; as much as you hated being an exception to rules, you knew you had to try, if only so that you wouldn’t overstay in university.
“Where to next for you, then?”
“The chemistry building, I think,” you replied, not really sure if you should go on with it. The fatigue and dread had robbed you of your will to actually go to the building; part of you just wanted to be committed to the cold dark earth. But before you could admit it, the lanky boy turned on his heels and walked into the direction of the sunken garden, as if he knew exactly where to go.
“I know where it is. Come on, we haven’t got all day,” he said, before walking away from you even further. You sprinted to catch up to him, confused out of your mind. How is it that this foreigner, who had only arrived literally a week ago, who got lost following a map from CAL to the Vanguard, know where one of the most obscure buildings in the campus was? Even as you walked up the stairs and entered the cool, air conditioned chemistry department, you still couldn’t believe that he knew the way.
“We’re here,” he announced, beaming at the department secretary. Did they know each other?
“Hello ma’am,” you whispered in a low, somewhat shy voice, low enough for Tom to not hear. “Is the visiting professor for the chemical process industries class here?”
The secretary let out a deep sigh, like a weary onlooker who had seen many a brave adventurer attempt and fail, as if hordes of students had asked the same thing you just did. “He’s in the third room in the left hallway,” she replied in your native language. “But don’t count on being added to his class. And don’t tell me that I didn’t warn you.”
As you walked towards the hallway, the sounds of Tom chatting happily away with the secretary followed you. How did they know each other? He mentioned he was a Drama major for his stay here, didn’t he? And that his stay here was only until December? So how could he possibly know the secretary?
Before you could reach an answer to the question, you reached the door of the visiting professor’s room. Knocking twice before opening the door, you took a deep breath in to steel yourself. You peeked your head through the door, and a well-aged man peered up at you from the papers he was reading. Judging by the format you saw from where you stood, they seemed to be journal articles.
“If you’re trying to prerog into my class I won’t allow it. The class list says 25 students and so 25 students is all I’ll have,” the man said, his Scottish brogue distracting you as it removed the harsh edge his words meant to convey.
“Th-thank you sir,” you stuttered, feeling defeated as it dawned on you that you wouldn’t be able to graduate on time. You stared on a little, hoping that your lingering presence would perhaps force him to look up from his reading and see you, a desperate human being reliant on the mercy that only he can grant. But he didn’t budge, and so you started to close the door, slowly so that it wouldn't make that loud of a sound. There was a symbolism somewhere there, that closing the door to the room also meant closing the door on your dream to graduate on time, but you felt as if the floor was going to give away with how disheartened you were, and you couldn’t pick the metaphor out of your tired mind even if you tried.
Suddenly, an unseen arm threw the door open. You looked behind you; it was Tom, and he casually strolled into the room with a relaxed air that not even a masteral student would have. A masteral student would cower at the door, much like the way you did, scared to go further and trample on hallowed ground without permission. But he just waltzed in with so much bravado, as if he had been to the physics department for years or worse, as if he owned the place.
“Hi dad!” Tom said, sinking down in the armchair in front of the desk.
‘Dad?’ you asked yourself, blinking twice as you couldn’t bring yourself to believe that you just heard. Tom looked at you, gesturing to your wide-eyed face as he told his father your name. Tom invited you to come in, and you slipped the rest of your body in through the door. As you looked at the both of them, you saw the resemblance they had with one another: the high forehead, the strong brow, the curly hair.
“This lovely girl is my friend, dad! She saved me today. I swear I would've gotten so lost if it weren’t for her. She went out of her way to guide me through the campus and she even helped get through prerog! She’s an absolute angel, dad,” Tom beamed, and you could feel the heat build in your entire face and he heaped praise after praise of you to his father. Just what was this boy trying to get at?
“Is that so?” His father asked, smiling as he put the journal articles down. “In that case, young miss, come close to the desk and let me look at your forms,”
You walked to the desk, unsure what to expect. He gave your forms a quick read before taking a heavy fountain pen from the side of the desk and signing on the papers. You looked at him with a confused expression as he handed your forms to you, not quite sure about what happened. He smiled at you again.
“I suppose your friends told you that I didn’t accept students who would try to ‘prerog’ into my class; it’s one of my rules. Be that as it may, however, such rule must bend to a person of exemplary character,” he said, as you took your papers from his outstretched hand. “Thank you for helping Tom. I’m sure he won’t have such a hard time adjusting with a wonderful person like you as his friend.”
You began to say “Thank you, sir,” but you were cut off by a low grumbling sound. It was your stomach, and you hand flew to your lips in embarrassment. The father and son duo smiled wide.
“Have you eaten yet?” Tom asked, and you shook your head, losing the ability to speak by the sheer embarrassment of it all.
“When was the last time you ate?” the younger Hiddleston asked.
“...breakfast at seven in the morning,” you whispered, and Tom’s mouth flew open in shock
“Well, We have to get something to eat then! Come, it’ll be my treat.”
You opened your mouth to protest, but Tom was already up and by the door, turning the knob and setting out into the corridor.
“Would you like to come with us, dad?” Tom asked, looking back at the man behind the desk.
“Thank you son, but I still have to read some of these research articles. I’m sure my new student would love to join you, though,” he replied, before looking at you and smiling sweetly, as if to say that you should get a move on.
As you both exited the chemistry building, you found yourself just staring at the side profile of the man who may or may not have won the chance for you to graduate on time.
“M-mate, I…” you began to say.
He looked resplendent in the colours of the setting sun, and he turned your way to listen to what you had to say. But as you opened your lips to speak, you lost your ability to gather words and form coherent sentences. Looking back on today, he had done so much for you than you had. Imagine getting accepted into the two classes you needed today, and only because he somehow convinced both professors to take you in. He smiled kindly at you, before deciding to speak.
“When I was chatting up the secretary, she mentioned to me in passing that you were going to try and prerog into my dad’s class. I remembered what my dad mentioned over breakfast, something along the lines of not allowing any more students in, and I rushed to see if there was something I could do.”
“T-Tom…” you stuttered, words still failing you as you couldn’t believe your luck. “How could I repay you?”
“Well…” he trailed off, and your breath hitched. Usually, people never answered that question with an actual favour to ask. Now you wondered what he could possibly ask. Before your mind could go to… dirtier places, he spoke up again. “How about being my dance partner for the ballroom dancing class?”
You laughed, and he just stood smiling at you, though he was confused why you were laughing. “Sure, why not?” you replied, and somewhere between the laughs, your stomach decided to interrupt again with a low grumble.
Soon, it was Tom who laughed. “That’s it for us then. You’re just demanding for dinner,” he chuckled, and you swatted his arm. “Ow!” he yelped in fake pain, rubbing his arm in a jest before grinning again. “Do you know a good place where we can eat?”
You soon found yourselves at Mang Larry’s barbecue stall. It was unusually empty that day, with only the two of you there aside from Mang Larry, who fanned the flames and manned the grill. You watched on in delight as Tom pointed to things on the grill and asked heavily accented “Ano po ito?” questions in succession. Mang Larry would cheerfully reply, and your delight increased ever so slightly at Tom’s bewilderment over some of the more unusual stuff, like goto or isaw.
Soon, Tom came back with a plateful of stuff and looked at you sheepishly, as if to say that he somehow forced himself to purchase the lot because he kept on asking questions. Most of it was pork barbecue, but there was some isaw, botsi, and goto as well. “It’s safe to eat, don’t worry; Mang Larry is an institution,” you said, smiling as you reassured him. The scent of charcoal grilled meat made the back of your mouth tingle, and before you knew it you both started to tuck in.
“Well, I’m looking forward to dance with you,” he suddenly said, his voice sounding thick with meat. You look up at him and smiled, wanting to say something but your mouth was too full to reply.
He reached over suddenly, the pad of his thumb brushing over the corner of your mouth before he sat back down again. He stared into your eyes for a brief moment as he brought his thumb to his lips, his eyelids fluttering closed as his tongue poked out to lick it. You found yourself touching the spot he touched as you stared on, and looked at your fingers to find the remnants of a smudge of sauce. You looked furiously down at the patterns on the monoblock table, not sure how to meet his eyes after that scene he just made and the way it made you feel.
“It’s better to dance with someone you know well… and right now, you’re the only one who knows me best here,” he said softly, and you looked at him despite your better judgement. Your heart hummed as he smiled at you, and it drove you mad how the man who made a scene over the smudge of sauce on your cheek and the man whose lips were now curved into a warm smile were even the same person. As you nodded to agree with him, you realised that you would be in a world of hurt if you ended up falling in love with him.
And yet you did.