Chapter Text
"Are we friends, Edd?" Tom had asked one day, joy and innocence woven into the stitches of Tomee Bear; whistling as he sucked in a breath through the gap in his teeth; bright-eyed when he looked up at the kid in front of him.
Edd cheered, wrapping Tom in the tightest hug he had ever suffered through (and he thought his dad was a strong hugger!) as he smiled big and true. "Of course we are, Tom! You and me— we are super best friends! Like brothers!"
"Even when we're grown ups?"
"Even when we're grown ups!"
i.
Tom always tried to make himself more digestible to people. More likable. Easier to love.
For most of his life he could count on his hand just how many people truly knew him (four, it was only four people and he was okay with that). Ever since his first encounter with grief— possibly the worst day of his life— he was never an easy person to get along with. Somehow, he was blessed with friends that saw past his demeanor. Friends that understood his way of showing love and affection. Friends that helped him through it all and, he in turn, would help them back.
But it started when Tord left for the big city that he found himself doubting it all again— pondering the distance from the roof to the ground. A dramatic reaction maybe, but it wasn't at all rare for his inner turmoil to surface up again (even less rare to cope with the numerous bottles of vodka in his room).
Edd and Matt, the two out of the three people left in his life, always helped him overcome the hardships. He lost someone he thought he could call a friend under all the acts of rivalry and mayhem, and the status quo shifted for the worse.
The thing is, being in a three-person group meant two indirectly leaving the third one out. Tom was not the lucky one. And perhaps it was his fault. He just wasn't easily digestible after all. And god, all the drinking, he thought he left that habit back in highschool, he thought he got better (and he didn't, of course he didn't, he was broken) but it all came tumbling back as quick as it began. Tom found himself looking for validation to make sure he wasn't a compete fucking burden.
"Are we friends?"
Edd sputtered the second time Tom had ever asked that, and he quickly enveloped him in another tight hug. Edd's hugs were always so nice. He held him like he was the most important person in that moment— like he was holding the weight of the entire world in his hands. Tom nearly choked out a sob that day, dropping the bottle and ignoring its existence as it rolled out of view, then hugging the man back. "Of course! Of course we are! Super best friends, remember?"
He'd laugh. Tom would laugh back, such a silly title when they were kids.
"Yeah," he sniffed, feeling even warmer when Matt laid a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. "Yeah, I remember…"
This was a while ago.
Just recently, his past feelings all came tumbling back, rubbing salt in an old wound that he thought had healed. Tord. He returned, and not for the reasons he was hoping for. Of course, Tom knew things would never be the same again. The four of them wouldn't have those dumb adventures anymore, slaying zombies or touring the burning streets of Hell. Even Edd and Tord fighting over bacon was a bygone memory that seemed impossible to recreate. Something had to be mended between the four of them, Tord hadn't even so much as given them a call after he left for the big city (Tom had to pretend it didn't hurt when those text messages left further and further gaps overtime). So when he came back that day, acting like nothing was wrong, Tom was livid. He had to be. Edd and Matt tried to play along like complete idiots.
Tom found it ironic that he knew Tord the most even after all these years.
So when Tom found out Tord's ulterior motives, he was ecstatic at first! Well— not the betrayal part, but the fact that he was right. "I was fucking right!" He'd yell, validation quickly turning to fear. What the hell was Tord thinking?
To this day, Tom never could figure out just why.
When Tord brought out that stupid giant robot and tried to blow Tom up, he knew it was truly over.
Not only did he lose a friend, he lost him twice.
(He's dead. There's no way he survived that crash. He's dead.)
But it was okay. It was completely fucking okay. It was no skin off his back, right? Tord brought this upon himself. And, the thing is, he has Edd and Matt. As long as they're in his life, he can conquer anything. They can conquer anything. Together. Time and time again, the three of them proved that, even if there was that fourth gap haunting them. Of course, now Tom found himself separated from the others behind the dingy apartment walls. And of course, he was rotting to his couch with even more alcohol finding its way into his veins. And of course, they spent less and less time seeing each other. But it was okay. It was completely fucking okay.
It was one day, when Tom fell over in a drunken stupor, hitting his head against the corner of the kitchen counter that he had come to accept that he was so, so, very wrong.
Here he was, bleeding out in his grimy and dreary flat, staring mindlessly at the mold that stained his roof. No one was here to help.
"What…" he trailed off, turning to the sticky blood pooling beneath him. "What have I done..?" The words were barely audible in the silence of the room. A strangled noise escaped him, and only then did he process the hot tears that trickled down his face.
His victory over Tord was nothing to celebrate.
And worst of,
He was alone.
A year had passed since then.
Recently, there has been news of "the end of the world!" that kept making its rounds in the consciousness of the public. What was it again? Some radical, strange group of individuals that increased in numbers. There was fear in everyone. Hysteria. Terror. Despair. But Tom couldn't find it in himself to care. The world has ended for him many times and it began again in the morning.
He doesn't know what to do with himself. The distance between him and his friends grew to a point where it was obvious.
They wanted nothing to do with him. He understands why, but that doesn't mean it hurts any less.
It was a long time coming.
Tom always tried to make himself more digestible to people. More likable. Easier to love.
And it failed each time.
It was around three in the afternoon and Tom realizes that he's been awake since noon, spending his time completely dissociating from reality with, yet again, another bottle in his hand. There was a time when Matt or Edd would knock on his door once it reached the point of worry, inviting him to either one's apartment for breakfast. That time has long passed.
Sometimes, he wonders if he was just in the wrong time-line. Something he must've done in the past that triggered this trickle of events, something beyond his capacity to explain why he was in the worst point of his life that he for once could not blame himself for.
Yikes.
Okay, he had to stop sulking for the day now. There were three things that he has to deal with today: pain, depression, and ravenous hunger.
He decides to remedy the last one, because the other two he'd long since given up on fixing.
Just as he was about to get up and prepare some amalgamation of a British breakfast, he heard five rounds of gunshots just outside his apartment.
Okay.
Alright.
Tom knows he doesn't live in the best neighborhood. He knows there's plenty of fights between drunken blokes (that he may or may not have contributed to), or the occasional drug busts that he tends to avoid on his usual path. He knows that. But despite the flaws that England has, gun violence in the middle of the day was not one of them (and no, he was not going to comment on how he and his friends would get their hands on artillery in the past. Street fights were different from zombie breakouts, okay?!)
So what the bloody hell was happening?
Tom quickly jumps out of his tangled menagerie of sheets and peaks through his dusty blinds, searching for any explanation as to why his Sunday afternoon of questioning his entire life was so rudely interrupted.
And there it was.
People ran down the street, tumbling forward as more gunshots began to follow. Further down was a gang of what looked to be soldiers wearing grey uniforms and wicked grins rounding citizens up. In the distance was smoke and fires breaking out seemingly just to add to the chaos.
There it was, the personification of all the warnings that Tom should've taken seriously over the past few months.
His first instinct was to grab Edd and Matt and Ringo and flee or fight like they always do; save the world for the hell of it and then come home and watch Professor Why all night until they pass out, cracked out with cola and pizza and the comfort that they could accomplish anything so long as they stuck together.
Tom was smiling to himself at the thought. Maybe there was hope, maybe he could fix this and redeem himself. He could finally go to rehab like he always said he would, he could finally be worthy of calling himself their friend. A part of him knew it was sick to use a tragedy as a means of hope for his own problems, but another part of him didn't care.
He dashes to Edd's apartment first, knowing Matt was usually hanging out there anyways, and quickly swung the door open with an unforeseen amount of strength. "Guys? Are you seeing this?!" Tom yells, only to stop in his tracks.
It was empty. Abandoned, almost.
Panic began to rise in Tom's chest. Did they get taken? Hurt? Killed? He steps forward and starts looking for signs, anything to ease his worries that they were okay. The place was practically ransacked. Not even Ringo's food was left behind. It was just… strange. Tom wasn't able to find any indication of a fight.
Surely they didn't…
Tom shakes the thoughts away. No. No matter what, Edd would never abandon him. Never. He swore on it. Even if they've been in this slump in their friendship, that doesn't mean he would just ignore his existence entirely. Right?
Yeah.
He was about to leave and try calling until he spotted a note stuck on the back of the front door. Tom reaches forward and grabs it, first noticing how careless the handwriting was as if it was written in a hurry.
Tom, if you're reading this then know we're both so sorry—
Pause.
No. No fucking way.
The paper nearly crumpled beneath Tom's terrifying grip. He continues.
We tried finding you when we decided to leave but you weren't at home. I hated the way things ended but—
Before he realizes it, the words are stained with black pools of tears that fell from his cheeks. Bullocks. Bullshit. This can't be happening. This was some elaborate joke. It had to be.
It hurts so bad but Tom pushed through the despair that was overflowing in his chest and the pit in his throat that stopped him from breathing and he read the rest of the note. Nothing about their location, nothing about their plan, just the fact that they were safe and gone and—
Tom cries out in a mix of anger and anguish, ripping the paper in two and slamming the door shut behind him (his strength ended up creating cracks in the wall and he heard something crash in the room but he didn't care he didn't care he didn't care) as he retreats back to his apartment and starts packing. Grabbing anything that deemed itself useful while gunshots and shouts still riddled the streets, Tom attempted to push down all the overwhelming emotions that threatened his very existence. Soon, an explosion must've detonated far too close to the complex because the windows shattered and Tom was thrown across the room. His ears were ringing and his bones were aching beneath his footsteps but complete spite was fueling this man.
Fine. He can do it. He can live without them. He'll fucking prove it.
He's been doing it for months, anyways.
Tom quickly learns that the ones devastating the streets were a group of dangerous individuals that labeled themselves the "Grey Syndicate". Really though, it was more of an army.
They had a specific goal in mind, and that was to reign terror on the world. Gain power through fear. Why? Tom wouldn't be able to figure it out. He hated politics anyway.
Maybe it was his depressive episode, maybe it was the fact that he wasn't sober for most days, but he seriously underestimated their danger level. For a while he thought it was just going to be another lame and random threat on the world that would pass as soon as it arrived, much like his adventures in the past, but it truly struck him just how serious this may have been once he fled his 'home'. This must've been going on for a while, a crime syndicate working in the background to propagate and control society…
What was even more surprising was that there was an immediate counter to the syndicate. One that was just as powerful.
The Red Army.
War broke out. World has gone to shit. People have to choose between the two evils of Red and Grey while Tom chose neither. Promises were just promises, everything was a lie, and they will destroy everything before they reach a conclusion.
He was always a punk at heart. Maybe his angsty teen self was onto something when he promoted anarchy at school.
Tom thinks it's been about a week since he's read that bloody note and finally left. And since then, he's been on his own. He was slippery when it came to those grey soldiers, and somehow made it past areas of London that they have claimed.
The first day, Tom found himself dashing to his old childhood home. He had to know if his mum was safe. The last thread of his humanity, really. If she was, he swore that he'd protect her and take a bullet for her if he had to. If she was, he'd make sure she escapes the country no matter what. But if she wasn't? Well… Tom didn't want to think of that.
Once he arrived at the old house, he found that it was also empty. Figures. But that wouldn't have answered any of his questions so he persisted. Phone service wasn't working, so that would've been a bust. No notes were left behind, no indication of a fight. But it wasn't enough.
It was a stretch, but Tom ended up busting into one of the neighborhood houses. It was the house of cranky ol' Mr. Martin. Some old geezer from Tom's childhood that he and his friends would get in trouble with all the time. And, to Tom's surprise, Martin was still home.
"Mr. Martin?!" He gasped, perplexed at the mere concept of this old man staying behind while the entire block was abandoned. "What are you still doing here you old coffin-dodger? You need to leave!"
Martin grumbled in reply, not even angry that Tom had just bursted into the house. Looking back, it almost seemed like he was expecting him. "Look son. My wife, her beautiful soul, is still in his place. I'm not abandoning her. They can murder me for all I care," he turned to Tom, a fire blazing in his eyes despite his tired expression. "As long as I die here, I am at peace."
Must be nice having someone so loyal like that, Tom thought. He brushed it off.
Tom asked him if he knew what happened to his mum. Martin said that it was the Red Army. When he spoke those first few words, Tom was mortified. He thought the worst. But then the old geezer continued with his story.
"Yes Thomas. I'm telling ya, they promised us safety or something… I told 'em I didn't wanna go, and they didn't fight it. They weren't hostile at all, unlike 'em greyhounds." Martin huffed, slowly testing Tom's patience.
"So? Did you see her leave? Did they say where they'd take you?"
"Said they'd take us outta the country and somewhere safe. I saw your mum and everyone else enter a few vehicles. My gut tells me it wasn't a lie."
And that was that. Tom had nothing to go off of except the words of a crazed man, but he had to believe it or else he would actually go completely insane. It was one thing to lose all his friends, but it was another to lose his only mother.
He left the house, wishing Martin the best.
It was ridiculous and Tom knew it. Senseless, illogical. But he went into his childhood home a second time for what he assumed would be the last. Tom quietly walked through the halls, searching for something unattainable. He imagined many years ago when all four of them entered this house and ran around without a care in the world. The walls were scattered with photos that dated back to when he was a baby. His hands brushed against the ones where his dad was still alive, when things were simpler. Tom entered upstairs. His old room was kept clean and the same since the very first day he finally moved out, full of many tchotchkes and paraphernalia from his past. The posters, the vcr and television, the action figures from his favorite cartoons. The photos.
He didn't know what he had until it was all gone.
Tom found a dusty frame propped up on the wooden bedside table. He picked it up and was immediately hit with a sense of nostalgia.
He remembered that day. It was when they all graduated junior school. They were around ten at the time. His dad was in the photo too, with Tom placed over the man's shoulders, and his mum was the happiest she'd ever been. Edd and Matt were with their parents too, while Tord was in the middle of the shot because his parents couldn't make it or something. But he was still just as gleeful, because Tom's dad was ruffling Tord's hair, just as proud.
He was about to take the frame with him, but he hesitated.
No, this was all better to be left in the past. He'll never be able to go back, and keeping it wouldn't have changed that.
So he finally left the house, gently closing the door as if he was a teen leaving for school again. He takes one more look back, before eventually moving on.
The third day, Tom was wandering aimlessly. He encountered some "greyhounds" as the people started to call them, but he was always able to fight them off. He prided himself on his fighting and firearm skills. It really wasn't anything new. Though, Tom knew that being outnumbered would be his only demise. That's why he had to avoid encounters as much as possible.
But there was something. Something waiting, always watching, threatening to release when things got too bad.
This was also the day that hunger was starting to slowly bother him.
Tom was able to get rations from scattered support groups but those were limited, and all the separated families and kids he saw broke his heart into damn-near pieces. He felt horrible taking more than he had to, so long as there was a kid out there that was all skin and bones or a pregnant person who had to feed for two. His other option was to raid abandoned stores and even those were beginning to run clean.
His hunger also slowed him down. Some dickwad greyhound saw him in an alley and followed him. Tom couldn't run fast enough with his energy depleting, so he was forced to shoot the man right between the eyes and scurry into another alley to avoid being caught red-handed.
Speaking of which, here he realized he had a bounty on him by the syndicate. He was catching his breath against the wall when he saw it: a blurry poster of him running with the bold letters of "wanted" taking up most of the space. Only one-hundred thousand pounds? He's totally worth more than that! How stingy! (The jokes helped with the complete horror he felt that day).
There were more scattered papers that stuck to the wall. Wanted posters, warnings, news clippings. Tom looked at it all with disinterest, a lame way to distract him from yet another body count added to his tally.
Then, he saw it.
Fuck. The light silvery eyes that held so many mysteries; the stupid hair that was shaped like horns; the large build that accommodated so much history and pain. Fuck.
Tom's breath hitched as he grazed his fingers along the photo of the poster next to his. Of course. Of course he survived! Of course he was somehow involved with the Red Army! How did he not see this coming? Something in his gut was stirring within and no, it wasn't hunger. It was an ache, but also a complete relief to something that weighed on him for nearly a year.
Tord was alive. He didn't murder him!
But also, Tord was alive… he didn't murder him… yikes.
Tom continued to stare at the photo, taking in all the details. His face— it was so damaged, and the bounty on him was a few more extra zeros than Tom had. Suddenly, that day was put into a bit more context. If Tord was trying to get his robot then it was for the very reason this war broke out. World domination, sure. But also to fight against the greyhounds that opposed the Red Army. But still...
...
He pushed down the overflowing emotions (like always), and moved on.
The sixth day was nearly the worst of them all.
He ran out of alcohol.
He was withdrawing.
Tom knew it well. Every attempt he had at quitting, it would be a month of pure restlessness. The migraines, the irritation, the tremors. Difference is, he had a home to stay in and friends to help him. Now? He's sleeping behind dumpsters near dead carcasses that the greyhounds got to. And no painkillers to boot. His mind was craving something beyond his reach.
And this forced him to slip up.
He was delirious when he heard the shouts of soldiers nearing his makeshift camp but instinct quickly took over and he grabbed his things and ran. Tom made it about four hundred kilometers before he hit a dead end on the street— he coulda swore it was a left— surrounded by greyhounds that were on his tail this entire time. He didn't grasp that fact. He was just so, so tired.
A sharp pain hit his leg and he looked down, realizing that he had been shot. The fact that he wasn't yelling at the agonizing throb was a testament to his feverish state, and the soldiers were saying something about a bounty…
"...you! You're the wanted kid!" One shouted, pointing his rifle to his head. "Quick, restrain him!"
It was when the end of the rifle smashing onto his skull was when Tom thought it was finally his time. Finally over. He was knocked to the ground, barely conscious. Three surrounded him and grabbed his wrists to cuff him. Danger, danger! His mind would scream beneath the layer of delirium, but he couldn't do anything to stop it. Then...then came that familiar throb inside of him was threatening to release. It whispered promises against his ribs, desperate to be let out with quiet begs. Tom normally ignored it but… it was so comforting (let me help, I can help), almost lulling him into a deep sleep that he had so desperately been craving.
For a long time.
Tom closed his eyes and he was floating. He was free. The dull ache of his injuries slipped away and the satisfying burn in his eyes from finally getting some rest was enough for him to accept whatever state of subconsciousness he was in. He can hear, vaguely, what’s going on around him (like a deadly crunch). He can feel a splash, sometimes, can smell the asphalt and gunpowder and blood. This is the deepest he’s gone under. He was just so tired.
Everything went silent around him.
Then Tom remembered that he was surrounded by bloodthirsty greyhounds not even five minutes ago.
He came back to himself like waking from a horrific, paralyzing dream. His heart was pounding in his chest, hard against his ribs. He was dizzy when he tried to stand. When Tom's sense of self came back, he realized that the soldiers had seemingly left the scene, his hands were covered in blood and dirt, and his hunger had somehow been satiated.
His stomach churned and he vomited behind the nearest dumpster. Nothing came up, just acid and bile and it burned his nose and made his eyes water. There was a copper taste in his mouth, like he’s bitten his lip.
He chose not to question it.
That was two days ago.
Today was the worst of it all.
His leg was still injured, unsurprisingly. Nausea follows him like a shadow too, that disgusting itch for alcohol simply adding onto his list of problems. Tom was wandering on a path to nowhere, lost and exhausted and unable to think properly because his leg screams at him everytime he takes a step forward.
Also, he was pretty sure he was hallucinating.
"How can you be so sure?" Edd asks, patting him on the back. He doesn't know, but it was a pretty damn good hunch. "Hey, don't you remember this scene? It was uh… it seemed better when we were kids."
Yeah, it did.
Matt nods at that, but he was partially focusing on the mirror in his hands. "I know right! But the special effects still hold up. I think I should be doing the acting instead."
Yeah, Matt. Yeah.
"Zombie Pirates From Hell 2 is way better than this shit! You of all people should agree, vitne." Fuck, that voice. He hasn't heard it in so long. "That was our kryptonite."
Tord…
"Hva, Thomas? Are you okay?"
No, he's not okay because he's reliving the past where he's forced to encounter the three friends who he thought would always have his back, he's in the middle of a stupid war that he has no business in while walking up a stupid road, and he still can't help but wonder if Edd and Matt were alive and well because his stupid heart was too big for this world and he'll always love the people who existed in his life even if they'll never love him the same way and worst of all—
He was alone.
He never asked to be alone.
Tom turns to the foggy memory that nestles next to him and there are daggers in his black eyes. Rather than inky pools that reflected even the stars that were thousands of lightyears away, it was now simply dark; seething emptiness of hatred that imposes and takes up space, thick and raging against itself.
Edd frowns at this, the warmth of his hand leaving Tom's shoulder. "I'm sorry. We'll leave you be."
Of course.
Tom watches as the shadows of the past fade away into nothing. All that was left in his darkening vision was the long road ahead of him and the distant buildings of London filled with fighter jets and flames. His mind was so cruel to him. Of course in his last moments he'd be reminded of the fact that they all abandoned him.
In another universe, one where he didn't feel so deeply and when he didn't grieve so sincerely, would they have chosen him? Was it him who pushed them away, with anguish and love?
Pain suddenly shoots through his veins.
"I... I'm sorry," he gasps out, his leg finally giving up on him. "I should've…" Crying out, he finds himself tumbling forward and falling onto the hot asphalt. Any strength that kept him moving forward was now long gone. His vision was seeping into black.
Before he completely allows the exhaustion to settle, he faintly hears footsteps crushing against the autumn leaves, distant yet so close.
The shadow approaches, resembling something that of a devil.
—
I still forget we're no longer friends
I still wake up with things to tell you.
—
Unbeknownst to Tom, he was being carried away from the horrors of the war. He was held so gentle, like he was something to keep safe and hidden away. Something precious. Something important.
A hand brushes against his many lacerations and bruises, observant and thoughtful. His face was held with something cold and metal but it was oddly comforting, proven by the slow swipe against his bottom lip.
He was being placed in the back of a vehicle, somewhere so warm that even in his senseless state of existence: he recognizes the level of comfort that was brought to him and he snuggles further into what seems to be a fluffy blanket. He hasn't felt this warm in ages.
The ride was bumpy. Every now and then he finds himself drifting in and out of consciousness, forcing him to confront the aching pain that inhibited his body. He whines. Someone was nestled next to him and they ran a hand through his hair, reassuring him.
"We're almost there."
Tom wants to stay like this forever. He felt so at ease. It was like when he was a kid. It was him falling asleep on the couch and his father picking him up and bringing him to his bed, sleepy but still being able to hear the laughter on the other side of the wall. He knew, just barely, what was going on around him at this moment; despite this, he was not aware. He is simply existing in the moment without a worry in the world. He was allowing anything to happen to him.
In another universe, this was normal. He is in this same situation but instead he fell asleep during a road trip with his friends, driving home after a long day of senseless fun. He is eighteen again, and nothing bad has happened.
In this universe, he's twenty-seven and it seems the entire world was against him.
Tom wakes up.
It was anything but peaceful.
He gasps and tries to ground himself, sitting up (from a bed?) in a cold sweat. For a moment he stops everything, stops breathing, and tries to figure out how he got here. Last thing he remembered was walking down that long road and then… driving in a car?
Finally he takes a look around. It was a sterile looking room, full of medical equipment and utensils. It was dark, the only source of light coming from the moon peeking through the tiny window. Tom looks down and sees an IV inserted through his arm. Anxiety starts to arise within him but he forces himself to take a deep breath, because trepidation wasn't going to help him right now. Where was he? An infirmary, obviously. But how, and why? The best case scenario was that he dreamt everything that has happened in the past few years. Worst case scenario, greyhounds finally got their hands on him when he was delirious and he was about to be made into a soldier to pay for his crimes.
Suddenly, the door begins to creak open.
Shit. If Tom wasn't freaking out before, he was really freaking out now.
He panicked, eyes darting around the room for somewhere to hide or run. But Tom wouldn't have been quick enough, so he settles for a weapon and searches for the nearest object to use as defense. He grabs something that was on the bedside table and points it at the tall figure at the door, a crack of light shooting out from the hallway.
It was silent for a good ten seconds.
"...I appreciate the effort, but I don't think a TV remote is going to be enough to conquer me."
…
Oh great, a smart-ass. Tom stays quiet anyways, and throws it at the person as a last ditch effort.
They raise their arm and easily blocks the attack.
Well shit.
The figure approaches, and Tom is quickly trying to come up with another plan that guarantees his success in immobilizing the stranger and escaping the facility. He comes up with absolutely nothing. He decides to accept his fate in whatever the hell was going to happen to him, until the moonlight from the window finally reflects off of the person and grants him a perfect view and…
No.
Tom clutches the sheets and he sinks further into the bed and his heart hurts, it hurts so bad that he wants to scream.
"Tord." Tom simply states, eyes blown wide. He's hurting but he didn't know what to do or how to feel. He just stares, and he knows he looks absolutely ridiculous doing so. Then suddenly it all clicked. It was Tord who found him, and it was Tord who rescued him. If it weren't for him, Tom would be dead.
"It was you." He says before he has a chance to think.
Tord keeps a neutral face throughout this entire exchange but Tom catches him slipping up because Tord hesitantly opens his mouth only to shut it immediately. And then he starts over, shaking his head. "I… I've been thinking about what I was going to say to you, for the past few days now. For the past year. But here you are, awake, and I'm still at a loss."
Tom nods half-heartedly, still in shock. He takes time to really process what Tord had just said. A few days? Has he been asleep for that long?
Again, his mouth moves before he has a chance to think. "...Did me hurling a remote at you throw you off guard?"
"Kinda, yeah."
They both stay silent for a few moments, before they burst into an intoxicating laughter. This situation was so fucked. Tom always thought his next encounter with the commie would've been nothing short of angry and disastrous and just completely bitter. And yet, here they are, smiling despite it all. He still wasn't sure that this wasn't another one of his awful hallucinations.
"You… your laugh…" Tord says in-between breaths. "Godhet, I've missed it."
Something stirs within Tom and he realizes, yeah he was still pretty upset about their last encounter. But so much time has passed since then, and he's used all of it to really think about his place in the world. He understands that the fact he was so relieved when he saw Tord's wanted poster, when he found out he was alive, says enough about how he really felt about their "friendship".
Still, he can't just let it go either.
"Tord," he says, a weight to his voice that had the commie immediately ceasing his laughter. "I can't do this. Are we pretending nothing happened between us the last time I saw you?" How you stabbed us in the back, Tom thinks.
"Can't we just pretend for a little longer?" He asks, almost pleading.
"You abandoned me."
"And I've been looking for you ever since." In the moonlight, Tom sees it, his eyes are imbued with yearning and determination and something ineffable. Almost as if he's saying I found you.
Tom stills. He isn't sure how to process that. "I'm still not… I can't just..." He sighs with frustration, unable to put his thoughts into words. Everything he's held inside for so long has now rotted and he's left with a gross blend of everything he's ever felt. "Thank you. For taking me in, I mean." Tom looks up at him, unsure. "Unless you're lying and you're going to take me prisoner or experiment on me or something. Then disregard what I just said, fuck you." Tom was half-joking
Chuckling lightheartedly, Tord steps closer to the hospital bed. Tom watches him carefully, trying not to show his complete shock when he sees that his right arm has been completely replaced with a prosthetic. Not only that, but he was just… different. In ways that shouldn't matter. Tord's grey eyes were somehow even duller, his smile was soft and worn out, and he had a thoughtful expression that nearly put Tom at ease. The mischievous and playful spirit was hidden away somewhere, and Tom never knew how much he'd miss it.
"It was the least I could do. After all, I…" Tord stops and just looks at the ground like it was the most interesting thing in the room. Then he shakes his head. "Do you need anything? Water?"
"Water would be great, thanks." Tom grunts, only now noticing how dry and sore his throat was. Tord walks over to the skin in the room and grabs a plastic cup, filling it with what Tom hopes was ice cold water. He comes back to the bed, handing it over only for Tom to swipe it and gulp it all down in one sitting. God. He'll never take water for granted ever again. He gasps in relief, until he sees Tord watching him with a bemused look and his cheeks heat up in embarrassment. "Shut up."
"I didn't say anything." He smirks.
"Shut. Up." Tom ends it with that, and lays back against the bed. He was still exhausted, honestly. Being unconscious for however long he was out was not a good way to catch up on sleep. Tord doesn't say anything else to him and it was silent again, but it's not awkward. It wasn't comfortable either. There was something weighing heavy in the air. Words they want to say, perhaps. The tears Tom wants to cry and the emotions he wants to spill, maybe. Questions… answers. But for now, he wants to be thankful that he can drink cold water and sleep in a bed again.
He is pulled out of his thoughts when he realizes that Tord pulled a chair up next to him and sat down. Tom glances over and finds bandages and a damp towel in his hands.
"Can I?" Tord asks, gesturing over to Tom's dirtied bandages and oh— he shouldn't have nearly cried at that.
Nodding, Tom thinks back to what his injuries looked like before he was rescued. Tord, or someone else, must've been taking great care of him, because his wounds looked much cleaner and his skin wasn't all gross and grimy. Tord unravels the bloodied bandages and gently pats the damp towel along his many cuts. Occasionally he will place the towel back into a bucket of hot water, ring it out, and start the process all over again. Tom was completely engrossed in this, watching Tord like a hawk. He can't remember the last time someone handled him so… softly. Was he really worthy of such tender care? By his rival's (ally?) hands no less.
Tom looks up from his battered arms and finds Tord's eyes. Unlike a year ago, tathered with mania and cruelty, it was now merciful and focused. Can a man really change like that in a short amount of time? Tord catches his gaze and Tom freezes up. One thing stayed the same, it always felt like the commie was staring right into his soul.
Then he just… Tord's eyes soften, and he offers him a small yet raw smile.
Tom bites his lip and quickly turns away. His eyes burn a little, and he feels suffocated and— fuck, the tight pressure in his throat was making it harder and harder to breathe. But if he does, then there's no stopping the tears that were threatening to spill. Of course, with his impeccable timing and inability to get a clue, Tord squeezes his hand in a way that was meant to be reassuring but now— Tom exhales— and he chokes put a sob.
For the longest time he was just so desperate. Desperate for someone to love and want him. To really want him, not simply tolerate.
And maybe, this was the closest he'll ever get.