Strawberry Panic {TomTord}

That really butters my croissant

At this point in life, it was quite hard to believe that his heart still worked the way it should. An excess of booze, panic attacks and running away from certain doom every week can really take its toll after a while. For all Tom knew, he was sitting on a literal ticking time bomb, hiding in wait for the exact moment where it could explode in a fit of overzealous pettiness, and gory irony.

He wouldn't expect anything less.

"Or more accurately; they know that we know that they know-"

A gentle throbbing pounded at the base of this skull, pulsing a harsh pressure that pressed tightly behind the back of his eyes. He gritted his teeth and forced himself to breathe slowly, deeply, even when his face started to twitch as he silently seethed.

Really, he didn't know whether he was angry at the inane cryptic answers he was constantly being barraged with, or the very real possibility that he was just a brain dead idiot that couldn't connect the dots.

Being equally as likely, he settled on both.

Tom slapped him on the arm, eyebrows furrowed.

He really wasn't in the mood.

If Edd was in the room, he would say that he has had enough of his tomfoolery- he would also be the proud owner of a shiny new black eye. Either way, he really couldn't be bothered.

Tord grunted and turned to sit down properly, leaning his elbows against the table, a far-off look in his eyes, "It really shouldn't have taken this long. We're already months behind schedule."

It was muttered lowly, ground out between a clenched jaw. A near uttered whisper, curling unpleasantly out of his lips; almost as though he actually hadn't meant to hear it.

Mentally counting down from ten, Tom huffed, "So, what's the plan? Have you seen everything that you needed to see? When are you leaving?"

Tord clicked his tongue, and gave him a pointed stare, "Of course I'm staying. Do you think I'd waste my time spooning against you in a maid cafe? I'm not finished yet."

Sinking his teeth into his trembling bottom lip, Tom willed himself to stop the openly hostile snarl that threatened to twist itself into his features. Getting somewhere with Tord? What had he been thinking? Under the several, suffocating miles of deep-rooted self-loathing and normalised violence, they were getting nowhere- because there was no place else to go. There was nothing else; they were at a standstill, destined to mock, and flirt and tear each other apart until the end of their time.

He was so stupid.

"Classic, stupid Tom."

Screaming seemed like a good idea, to screech until his voice strained, and his throat stained red. Hissing and spitting until his lifetime of bottled-up grief turned into blinding rage, pouring out of him like a never-ending crashing wave of bitter despair.

But he never had any good ideas.

He resolved on just glaring at the shiny, sleek surface of the tabletop, hoping to burn into the immaculate finish. Enough rage bubbled up inside of his veins to make the universe his bitch instead.

As if hearing his swirling, wrathful thoughts- or perhaps his angered teeth grinding was louder than he had originally thought- Tord looked up at him in concern, brow downturned, "Are you alright?"

Tom nodded tightly, the hum of confirmation crackling in his throat, "Peachy."

Tord squinted his eyes in disbelief, his mouth pressed into a hard line, "Is there-"