Strawberry Panic {TomTord}

A welcome

"Welcome back, Thomas."

Colour drained from his face, pigmentation washing away like paint from a wet canvas, hues muting under a bright shade of ghostly white. Sweat circled his sickly flesh, ice to the touch and nervous, bones stiffening uncontrollably in his neck. A shiver ran down his spine, cold and numbing, spanning across his body with piercing needles.

It was like someone had just stepped over his grave.

Eyes widening, Tom tensed, back straight and shoulders squared. Heart pounding, it felt too close to his head, pulsating behind his face, slithering up his throat and choking near his tongue. Nausea coiled unpleasantly in his gut, welling up like an overflowing fountain.

It's like he's just seen a ghost.

Teeth sinking into the sensitive meat of his tongue, Tom willed himself to breathe normally. Lids clenching tight in a throttling mixture of concentration and blind denial-  unwilling to peek around his shoulder to see; to confirm his suspicions that he truly was hallucinating, and yet fearing the consequences of never knowing the real answer.

"Really, I expected more of a response than that." A tutting noise cut through the air, sounding unbearably loud against the slight buzzing of the fluorescent lights, "Are you a smash and pass kind of guy? That's cold, even for me."

Keeping his jaw clenched, he gave no rebuttal, not trusting his chaotic, messy thoughts and loose lips. Instead, he gripped onto the stretcher bed, fingers digging into the tough, spongy fabric, knuckles white from the pressure.

"What a sight." Tord tried again, tone wilting in detached disappointment, "To think that I was so crushed about your rejection."

Thousands of words bubbled up from his brain, each one seemingly insignificant and rushed- not holding the same weight nor value that he wanted. Stringing himself between merciful begs, angry ranting, hissing despair and guilty sobbing. Feeling himself being pulled in different directions, not knowing which one was right or rational- debating between what he had to do, and he wants to do.

Back still turned, he spoke dryly, not liking the way that his mouth trembled, "Careful there, that's two puns in a row- Edd would be heartbroken if he found out you were coming after his brand."

He heard Tord snort behind him, it sounded just as empty as his words did.

Sorrow latched onto his core like a familiar leech, sucking out any resemblance of hope or joy from his being. Mildly aggravated at himself for falling into the same old pattern once again- bluff about his emotions, lock them up tight, to joke and tiptoe around important issues until he couldn't remember what made him sad in the first place.

His brain is poison.

Wondering where he would be without his natural defences was a moot point- but he figured that, perhaps, in another timeline, across an infinite number of possibilities, that Tom must be happy.

Lock them out.

It was a shame he wasn't that Tom.

Then again, he felt as though he didn't particularly deserve it.

Being vaguely aware that he was shaking, he wrapped his arms around his thin chest, feigning being cold. Irritably, he muttered, "Is there any reason why I'm half naked? It's rude to strip a lady whilst she's unconscious- I'd really prefer to have Florence back." 

It was true- he really would prefer to have Florence back. He had come to see the dress as a second skin almost; a suit of armour. Wrapped within the confines of dark blue material, he felt like a bigger, stronger person- someone different and new. Without it, he was left raw, exposed- and quite literally very naked.