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Tom had a new role. A lead role, naturally — how could it be otherwise? He did a good job of pretending he didn't care — especially while devouring tons of British content and twisting his tongue trying to master the right accent.
He didn't care at all, really, but when Gail texted that he’d landed the part, he practically jumped for joy — though he stopped himself, knowing Ryland was right there and would definitely have laughed at him. Or maybe not laughed, exactly; he’d just have realized how badly Tom actually wanted the role.
Just think about it.
A British villain.
Damn it, he needed to show up the people who thought he was stuck playing dumb American jocks — and the Brits themselves, who thought so highly of themselves.
He was going to nail this role; he’d make everyone go wild and convince them he was a true-blue Brit.
It was a struggle at first — he kept slipping back into his natural drawl, simply forgetting to do all those fancy things with his mouth and tongue. He recorded himself on audio and video. He even hired a demanding coach — an elderly Brit who worked him to the bone but did wonders for his diction. God knows Thomas poured himself into this role — just as he did with every project, to be honest.
Then he started practicing conversation and improvisation. A lot.
For Ryland, it was a mix of torture and blessing. He just couldn't get used to hearing "Oh, hello, darling" and "Thank you, love." Let’s be objective: it was incredibly attractive. Especially once Thomas started growing a mustache and styling his hair into an elaborate 'do. Actually, Raidand preferred Thomas’s original version by far — but as it happened, he was utterly fascinated by his man’s transformations.
Thomas was no better, though: he took advantage of that without a shred of guilt.
***
Domestic routine is a wonderful thing. It was especially nice to trade a solitary bachelor pad for an apartment with enough space for two people. Tom had really wanted a house — he actually owned several, complete with staff, massive garages, and God knows what else, but Ryland had flatly refused to move out to the suburbs.
"First of all," — he began sternly: — "it’s inconvenient. Second, I wouldn't be able to get to work the way I like..." — Tom started to open his mouth to suggest a chauffeur but quickly shut it again -a wise move: — "Third, you’d be away from home a lot, and you’re asking me to go stir-crazy all alone in the middle of nowhere? No way, mister. An apartment. Period. Otherwise, I’m turning down your offer to move in together."
Thomas Ryder was a total simp, so he agreed to every condition, pushing his real estate agent to find the perfect place.
"It would be easier to build a new house than to find one that actually suits you!" Gail fumed, watching the whole ridiculous process from afar.
"Can we do that? If so, let's go for it. And the main thing is, it needs a courtyard pool and a ground-floor gym. Oh, and a Starbucks wouldn't hurt..."
The man had no shortage of audacity. But then again, audacity pays off.
So, living together.
There was something sweet about swapping lonely mornings for the sense of another person’s presence and falling asleep in each other's arms, or holding the other person, or simply feeling the warmth on the pillow next to you. Oh, Ryland loved that. Even when Thomas went away to shoot in another state or country, or to attend events, leaving for days or even weeks at a time - that lingering sense of his presence was comforting. The feeling that there was someone who would text, call, ask how his day went, and send Spotify links to songs somehow breathed a surge of inspiration into him and gave him a massive boost of energy. Ryland was practically glowing.
(Sometimes Thomas wanted to bite him, or devour him whole - out of sheer emotional overload.)
Landing the role meant Thomas had plenty of time to prepare; naturally, he’d be working on other projects on the side, but his main focus was on this "British" character. It meant he’d be at home, which was incredibly nice. The only thing was, Ryland hadn't expected Thomas to go to such lengths — and drive him crazy — for this specific role. In a good way, though. Because the first time Thomas said, "You alright, love?" after Ryland dropped a stack of graded tests... Ryland short-circuited. Just for a split second. But hearing that from a guy who usually asked "Babe, you OK?" it was unusual, to say the least!
"Are you sure the villain would call someone 'love'?"
"Of course. They’re British, sunshine."
Thomas might have actually enjoyed watching Ryland turn away in embarrassment, fidgeting with his glasses—which, as usual, had ended up anywhere but on his nose.
***
Ry:
Thomas, why are there cookies and gummy bears in my backpack?
Tom:
it’s a polite gesture, sunshine. and it’s biscuits.
and.
is this an interrogation? :).
Ry:
You do NOT have to put a period after the smiley face.
Tom:
i need to look serious.
and hot.
:).
Ry:
That’s not hot.
Tom:
proof? i don’t take people at their word. not even gorgeous man like you.
Ry:
I’m ending this conversation.
Tom:
that’s hot.
wait.
Ry:
?
I’ve got five minutes left of my break.
Tom:
[photo of him in the flesh; a selfie, hair not yet styled, a languid half-smile on his lips]
could you hold out for at least five minutes before pouncing on me?
Ry:
…
I’m literally on the clock, Thomas.
Tom:
yeah, I know. :).
Ry:
I hate you.
Tom:
🩷
want me to meet you later today?
Ry:
Don’t you have a session with your accent coach?
Tom:
i’ll skip it. i’ve got another teacher. a favorite teacher. a handsome one. and terribly smart, too.
Ry:
Out of all the roleplay scenarios, you picked the most boring one.
Tom:
i had a choice???
***
Thomas always took his roles seriously. Sometimes he was even a bit overzealous. Like today, when a delivery of an entire tea set arrived at the house. Ryland, having signed for the package, wondered if it was a mistake — perhaps the shop had mixed up the addresses, or just another useless gift from one of Ryder’s friends, but...
"It’s for me!" Tom announced when Ryland called to tell him about the delivery.
"What for?"
"A formal tea party! At five o'clock."
"It’s already past six."
"Those are just details, darling. Would you mind checking if they brought the right color? I insisted on light blue; it would match your beautiful eyes perfectly."
Ryland let out a loud breath, hiding his pleased embarrassment:
"Do you want me to just take a quick peek, or check the whole thing?"
"Whoa, tiger! I don't mind you doing whatever your heart desires."
"That’s not an answer."
"Yeah. I’m teasing you. But honestly, it’s not that deep."
In the end, Ryland opened the package, unpacked it, and even washed the cups and the small, literally tiny, saucers. What were they made of? Porcelain? They were so delicate that simply holding them felt risky—as if one might accidentally break them.
The laptop, with unfinished presentation on it, seemed to look at him disapprovingly; but instead of letting guilt consume him, Ryland found a more practical use for it: he Googled "tea parties." Just to broaden his horizons, of course.
"Tea with milk," — he snorted: — "That sounds awful. I’m gonna make it."
Tom returned an hour later. Ryland came out to meet him — which was unusual. Normally, Tom would find him in the living room sprawled in some impossible position: feet up on the table, the armchair, the back of the sofa, or anywhere else.
It was suspicious. Just like the fact that Ry looked incredibly sly.
"What are you up to?" Thomas saw right through him immediately.
"Nothing. I just need you to dress properly. We’re having a tea party. A formal one."
Tom’s spirits lifted instantly; he raised his eyebrows.
"Really? Cool, I haven't had lunch yet." He deftly planted a kiss on the corner of Ryland’s mouth and headed toward their bedroom to get ready.
"Tea isn't a meal!" Grace shouted after him.
Thomas chuckled.
"Whatever you say, Mr. 'Coffee Is My Fuel'."
Tom sauntered into the living room like an old English lord, but he soon grew tired of keeping up the act; he quickly relaxed his shoulders, watching with interest as Ryland busied himself with something in the kitchen.
"Can I take a look?"
"No, it’s a surprise."
"Oh, I love surprises!" In response, Ry laughed. That was a good sign, right? If he was smiling, it meant it was a good sign.
A couple of minutes later, two cups on saucers, a sugar bowl, a teapot, and… milk appeared on the table.
God, how Thomas hated milk. First of all, he was lactose intolerant. Second, it was just weird, okay? He didn’t even drink matcha — because you could taste it in there
"It’s a soy milk," — Ry warned: — "It’s perfectly fine."
Tom let out a breath.
"Ry, you’re a lifesaver. Or rather, thanks, love. It’s really sweet of you to look after me like this."
Ryland glanced at him with laughter in his eyes, generously pouring more milk into his man’s cup and adding sugar, then taking a demonstrative sip from his own — pinky finger extended.
"You’re messing with me."
"Not at all. I’m teasing you," Ry replied calmly.
God, how Thomas hated milk. And how deeply in love he was.
He took the first sip looking like a man being sent into space without a spacesuit.
He slowly set the cup back on the saucer.
"Well?" Ry asked, not even trying to hide his slight gloating.
Thomas held a dramatic pause, gazing out the window. The view was spectacular.
"I miss America."
Ryland chuckled:
"You’re a California kid."
"Exactly! The land of freedom and decent tea. You know, darling, the kind of place where tea doesn't taste like liquid Snickers."
"You bought the tea set for this whole charade yourself!"
"Art demands sacrifice," he said, taking another sip to prove it. A small one.
Ryland watched him over the rim of his cup. His glasses were still hooked over one ear, and he looked suspiciously pleased with himself, savoring a quiet triumph over Tom’s obsession.
"You Googled this, didn't you?" Tom suddenly narrowed his eyes slyly.
Ryland made that face he always made when caught red-handed: slightly raised eyebrows, lips pressed together in an attempt to hide a smile.
"No."
"You’re such a bad liar, it’s almost insulting! You’re living with the best actor of the decade!”
“Yeah. That’s exactly why this is your job”.
They fell silent for a moment, simply savoring the present. It was cozy and calm — soft half-smiles they didn’t need to hide, an atmosphere of tender trust. Just a chance to unwind after a busy day.
Thomas spoke up:
“You know, it’s actually really sweet, that you organized all this for me”, — He briefly brushed his ankle against Ryland’s under the table - just to make contact - and continued as if nothing had happened: — “But you’re holding your cup wrong”.
“Oh god. Oh no”, — Ryland replied nonchalantly, making no attempt to correct his grip. An ironic smile played on his lips: — “And what’s the penalty for that?”
“Deportation from Britain. The British would personally put you on a plane”.
“Hmm, let the British return the artifacts to the museums first”.
“Return to me my heart first, Ryland”.
Ryland snorted softly into his cup, trying to hide his smile:
“I don’t recall stealing anything. That’s a crime, after all, and I’m a law-abiding citizen”.
“Really?” — Tom set his cup down with a prim air: — “That’s strange, because I’ve been feeling this way for months”.
“Chances are, you’re confusing it with hunger”.
Ryland said it so simply — save for a barely perceptible note of teasing and that smile playing at the corners of his mouth (the very spot Tom loved to kiss). Thomas couldn't tear his eyes away. He was weak, but don't get him wrong... you wouldn't have been able to handle it either.
So, he simply admired him in silence. A feeling of love, almost physical in its intensity, swelled within his chest. It might seem strange that this feeling hit him at a moment like this, but sometimes that’s just how it happens. It’s blowing his mind. Not literally.
“Thomas,” — Ryland began cautiously: — “you’ve got a really weird look on your face right now.”
“Do I?”
“Yeah. It’s the same look a character in that ridiculous movie had right before he dropped to his knees and proposed to his girlfriend. You aren’t planning to—”
Thomas was quick to react, looking at him with a perfectly serious expression:
“I don’t know, Ry. You got me drunk on milk tea. Do you think you can be trusted?”
“Mm… next question.”.