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Tom has been dancing for God knows how long. Long enough to get thirsty anyway. For alcohol. Yes, he calmly rationalizes, one more drink will definitely not make him drunker, it will just keep him exactly as drunk as he currently is, which is incredibly nicely drunk, for a bit longer.
He breaks out from the group (ignoring Scarlett’s disappointed pout) and half walks, half dances his way back towards the bar. Even in the dim light, he recognizes two blond heads over there, and can’t keep a stupid grin from appearing on his face. The Chrises. Chris Squared.
Tom wiggles closer, and just as he gets within reach he stops. Well no, he stumbles very gracefully and then manages to stop.
Both of them have their t-shirts pulled up to just under their chins, and they appear to be deep in some intimate discussion that includes lots of gesturing at each other’s abs and pecs.
Tom stares. For what feels like a very long time.
And then his Chris (correction, Hemsworth. Better not get too possessive here) reaches out and actually trails his fingers over Evans’ stomach and Evans laughs, his muscles quivering.
Well that does it.
Tom straightens, because tallness is next to godliness in drunken situations, and strolls over. Both of them notice him at once and break into identical grins.
“Tom!”
“Chris... es.”
They both laugh, loudly, and they both seem unaware that they are still flashing most of their upper bodies at everyone.
Tom orders a double gin and tonic and waits for it to be delivered before facing them again. “So, what are you two doing?”
Hemsworth’s smile is magnificent. “Well we’re discussing muscles, obviously.”
“Obviously,” Tom agrees, and suddenly wonders whether he is actually less drunk than they are. The idea would have seemed unreasonable five minutes ago, but then five minutes ago he hadn’t yet observed anybody drunkenly comparing their physiques.
Evans takes over. “Chris here thinks that my abs are more defined, and that I look more leanly muscled than him, but I’m trying to convince him that he’s definitely more ribbed.”
“But your pecs, mate.” At this point Hemsworth, damn him, quite obviously does a Peggy Carter and mock-shyly reaches out for Evans’ perfect chest, pulling his hand back before actual contact is established.
“No, your pecs… Dude. And look at your, uh, these!” Evans reaches out and shamelessly runs his fingers along the muscles that make Hemsworth’s hipbones look so defined, and honestly, Tom has no idea what those are called (Evans probably does, but is too drunk to remember), but he knows the lines of them disappear down below the waist of Hemsworth’s jeans and that has been distracting him ever since he first saw his co-star shirtless.
“And how do you get this?” Evans asks, folding Hemsworth’s free arm until he gets the point and flexes, his bicep bulging.
“I don’t know, mate, I just work out and stuff.”
Tom doesn’t even realize he’s doing what Hemsworth refers to as “Loki’s ‘Bitch-What-are-You-Even-Doing-Right-Now’?”-face before Chris points and laughs and shouts “Loki Bitch-face!”.
“We’re drunk, aren’t we?” Evans asks, his right hand still distractingly planted on Hemsworth’s arm and the other holding up his own shirt, albeit not as high as before.
“Uh... Yeah,” Tom says. “Pretty much.”
Hemsworth grins and releases his shirt, turning to Tom while Tom somehow manages to gulp down half a G&T in four big mouthfuls. He has just enough time to be grateful that Chris is no longer flashing his body at him before Chris moves closer, grinning widely. “How about you?”
“Uh,” Tom replies intelligently, putting his drink down. “What?”
And then Hemsworth has the audacity to look coy while he grabs Tom’s hip (to keep him from running away: nice move there) with one giant hand and then slides the other up under Tom’s shirt, impossibly warm fingers sliding all over Tom’s stomach, prodding and squeezing. It should be illegal for eyes to be this blue.
He must look shocked as hell, because Evans starts giggling and moves in to crowd him as well. “I wanna grope too,” he almost whines, and then his hand is on Tom’s chest, squeezing his pathetically small (by comparison) pectoral muscles.
This goes on for maybe a couple of seconds before Tom tries to wiggle away, but Hemsworth’s grip on his hip is impossibly strong, and really Tom isn’t actually trying that hard.
“Not bad,” Hemsworth finally says.
Evans nods. “I agree.”
Tom lets out a squeaky laugh. “Okay, so no more feeling me up at the bar, right?”
The two Chrises looks to one another at exactly the same time, which would be unnerving as hell if Tom had been sober. Hemsworth raises an eyebrow. Evans nods shortly.
“You’re right,” Hemsworth says, and pulls his hand out from under Tom’s shirt. “Groping shouldn’t be done at the bar.”
“Right... Wait, what?”
“I’m getting us a cab,” Hemsworth announces, and off he goes.
Tom stares after him. He registers vaguely that Evans still has a hand on his chest, and that the other is sliding around his waist.
“What’s going on?”
Evans snorts, pulls him close and nuzzles his nose against Tom’s neck. “Nothin’.”
Tom’s fingers close around the chilly highball glass on the bar, and he managed to calmly down the rest of his drink while being snuggled by an obviously very drunk and very touchy-feely Chris Evans.
“Chris?”
“Hmm?”
“How drunk are you right now?”
Evans pulls back far enough to give Tom a disappointed/sad/puppy-eyed look. “Tom,” he says, with a strange sort of emphasis, like he is trying to convince Tom that yes indeed, he knows who he is feeling up at the moment.
“Chris?”
Evans exhales, and then he smiles drunkenly. His hair is still in the Captain America style. He would look like the poster child of innocence if he weren’t so obviously inebriated. “Tom,” he repeats.
“No, seriously, Chris? You’re usually a pretty shy guy and this right here is not shy-guy behaviour.”
Evans frowns, very prettily, and pouts. “I’m okay. I’m good. This is good.” As if to prove his point he pulls Tom close and ohfucknothisisnotright there’s his erection pressing against Tom’s hip.
Tom doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t even move an inch. “But wh-...”
“You’re so fucking hot, do you know that?”
Tom really, really wishes he could conjure up another drink without drawing unwanted attention to them. “Uh... I dunno?”
Evans sniggers, and his lips brush against Tom’s jaw, unless the alcohol is making him imagine things. “You are.” He continues before Tom has a chance to go into self-deprecation-mode, “Seriously, you are. Have you seen yourself lately? You’re so damn hot, all suave and shit, with your stupid curly hair - ” fingers tangle in Tom’s hair and tug almost painfully, “and your stupid smile. Fucking hell.”
“Hnnng,” Tom not-really responds, because Evans has latched onto his throat, lips, tongue and teeth working over the thin skin.
And then suddenly Evans backs off, his eyes clouded with lust and too much alcohol. “Chris will have gotten a cab by now. We should go.”
Tom doesn’t even spare the rest of the cast a single thought as Evans pulls him outside and suddenly there are four strong hands urging him into a cab, two pairs of lips teasing every inch of exposed skin until their ridiculously expensive hotel comes into view and fuck it, by then he doesn’t even know whether he cares that Evans is obviously too drunk to know why he is doing this because Hemsworth seems almost too aware of what they are getting at, and why is that even a comforting thought? It shouldn’t be.
“For fuck’s sake, Tom, stop thinking,” someone hisses while they’re in the elevator and Tom cannot be bothered to distinguish between them anymore.
“It’s a bit of a challenge,” he says.
“It shouldn’t be,” Chris, Hemsworth, says, and then there are lips on his, pulling away the last threads of resistance. Weirdly enough, he has enough wits about him to realize that it’s Evans kissing him to make him feel better and not his Chris. Not that he cares at this point.
The best part is that when he arches his back and brokenly whispers “Chris”, both of them respond.
He wakes up in a king-sized bed, with a pounding headache and a mouth that tastes like gin and bodily fluids. Not good.
“Chris?”
Someone grunts.
Tom looks over. It’s Hemsworth lying next to him. Naked, and the sheets do not hide this fact at all, his hair sticking up in every possible direction, his eyes barely open.
“Where’s Chri- ... Evans?”
Chris, his Chris, frowns, and for a moment Tom is genuinely afraid that maybe he imagined everything that happened last night, but then the sound of the shower running registers with him, and with Chris as well, judging from his relaxing features.
They lie perfectly still, alternating between dozing and staring at each other, until the bathroom door opens and Evans trudges in.
It takes a lot of will-power, but Tom rolls over to face him. Feeling the sheets dragging over his naked skin when he shifts is almost pleasant. “Chris.”
Evans stops in the middle of the room. He has a towel wrapped around his waist. “No offence, you guys, but... What did we do last night?”
Every single muscle in Tom’s body goes rigid. Behind him, Hemsworth shifts around, and suddenly his chest is pressed against Tom’s back while an arm is draped over his body, and if that isn’t comforting, Tom will never know what comfort is.
“It was your idea, remember?” Hemsworth grumbles.
Tom doesn’t speak, he just watches as Evans stares at them.
“Not really.”
Fuck it. Tom turns his head and buries his face in the pillow below him. Despite it all, the solid weight behind him keeps him somewhat grounded.
“That’s too bad,” Hemsworth drawls, using his accent to his advantage as he manages to sound unbelievably cool about the whole thing. “Because it was bloody amazing.”
Tom doesn’t look up, but he hears Evans let out a tiny “Oh.”.
“Seriously, mate... I’m kinda devastated, on your behalf. Nobody should be forced to forget something like that.”
Tom turns his head up enough to blink, because he feels like he needs to do that. Evans hasn’t moved since he looked away, but he is blushing, all over actually.
“Maybe you two could... jog my memory?”
Oh. Tom makes some sort of noise. Behind him, his Chris chuckles, and the arm wrapped around Tom’s waist tightens briefly. “Sure. I don’t think Tom will object to that. Would you, Tom?”
“Uh... Can we have breakfast and painkillers first?”
Judging from their laughter, ridiculous amounts of muscle make you less susceptible to hangovers as well. Bastards.