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Everyone thinks he’s dead. When that harpoon pierced through his robot, they assumed he’d been destroyed in the crash. He survived. He tore himself out of the wreckage and flopped down on that bloody earth to observe the aftermath of his failures. He allowed himself to be dragged away, patched together, and propped back on his feet like someone’s Frankensteinian art project.
He didn’t want forgiveness- didn’t deserve it anyway. It wouldn’t change what happened, and it sure as hell wouldn’t fix anything. Tord never had a family, but the boys in that house had come the closest. They were the family he’d never asked for. He’d never wanted to get so attached, and had hoped (like a fool) that those feelings would dissipate in their years spent apart.
I. AM NOT. YOUR FRIEND!
The declaration still echoes through his mind at the worst opportunities. It should not hurt as much as it does, but something shattered that day. His friends made him week.
In the years following the disaster the Red Army has completely fallen apart. Tord lost his passion for the fight, and despite his best efforts everyone could sense the change. It’s hard to lean an army of renegades when your heart isn’t in it. Paul and Patryk stuck around for a while, likely as a result of some displaced sense of duty or obligation. Tord didn’t have the energy for it- for them. They expected things of him that he could no longer deliver. He had already proved that he wasn’t fit to lead the army, and having his right-hand men around only served to pour salt in the wounds. They deserved better than a broken shell of a leader.
Recent history has found Tord spending more and more time lurking in the areas his former housemates frequent. He knows it’s likely some sort of masochistic desire he should have squashed a long time ago, but he can’t be bothered to care. Watching them heal from the disaster- to mourn and laugh and move on- it hurts. It’s a pain he deserves, but it still hurts.
It’s a cliché horror movie night when Tord is forced from observation to action. It’s dark with clouds blocking the moonlight, rain falling in sheets, occasionally broken up by flashes of lighting. He’s watching the blurry figure of Tom stumble his way out of some back alley bar, clearly well on his way to black out inebriation. Tord cringes somewhat watching him take another swig from his flask before stumbling down the steps and into the rain.
Tom looks up at the sky like it offended him, and Tord tries to find amusement, although he’s never really enjoyed seeing his friend steadily drink himself to death. He tries not to think about how much fuel he’s personally added to that fire with his mistakes. He’s so lost in thought that he nearly misses the burly figures emerge from the door and start gesturing at Tom. They appear to be yelling, but Tom just flips them off and finally starts walking away.
One of the cowards jumps down and clocks him upside the head once his back is turned, sending him sprawling onto the dirty concrete. He doesn’t move right away, and Tord leans forward from his vantagepoint, squinting to try and better make out what’s going on. He’s too far away to be able to tell if Tom’s still conscious, and he feels the moment wrench anxiety in his stomach. He forgets to breath until Tom struggles up onto his hands and knees.
His breath is abruptly knocked out of his lungs again when one of the goons throws a knee into Tom’s exposed gut. He barely has time to flop onto his back before both men are throwing kicks at every inch of his vulnerable body that they can reach. Tord can’t quite remember deciding to intervene, but he finds himself with one assailant unconscious at his feet and the other staring down the barrel of his gun. “Take your friend and run,” he chokes out, voice gritty from lack of use. The man doesn’t move, so Tord makes sure he can see him cock the gun. “Now!”
The man was sizing him up- Tord knows he doesn’t possess the most threatening physical presence- but the oaf isn’t quite stupid enough to challenge a loaded weapon. Thankfully, he finally relents and gathers his now half-conscious companion, leaving Tord to re-holster his weapon and rush to Tom’s side.
“Come on Thomas, we have to go.” Tord slings an arm around Tom to support his weight and drag him to his feet. “The police will soon be on their way. Come on!”
Tom’s half-conscious, drunk and bloody, but he starts walking with Tord to the end of the alleyway. It’s then that he stops, much to Tord’s frustration, and blinks blearily at him. His eyes narrow and he leans in closer before leaning back again. There’s a pause before, “Tord?” It’s quiet, slurred, and marked with disbelief.
There isn’t time for this right now. Tord hoists Tom up by the waistband of his pants and half-drags him the rest of the way into the street. He’s staggering under his weight, but forces himself to move briskly to his car. Tom protests everything with a few garbled curses and groans, but he’s too weak to put up much of a fight. Idiot.
Tom is passed out cold by the time Tord makes it to his apartment, which is all well and good except it means Tord trying to sneak him in when he’s all dead weight. Tord is panting, clearly out of breath when he finally makes it to door, luckily able to find the key and make it inside before anyone took notice. He flops Tom onto the couch and goes to grab the first aid kit.
It’s as he’s dabbing at a split lip that Tom flinches slightly, and the tension in the room skyrockets when his eyes blink open. Now that they’re no longer obscured by darkness and rain, it’s harder to hide. There’s a long silence where neither of them moves, Tord too afraid of setting Tom off and Tom- Well. Tord can’t begin to guess what’s parading through that vodka-addled brain right now.
“You’re dead.” Those two words drop like a sack of bricks and Tord finally lowers his arm and rests both hands on his knees. He can’t bring himself to meet Tom’s eyes, so instead busies himself studying the differences between metal and flesh.
“Apparently not,” he finally mutters in response.
“You blew up the house.” There’s no emotion behind the words- they’re merely statements. Either Tom is still too drunk to fully grasp the situation or things are about to get very ugly very fast.
"Yes.” Tord does his best to keep his tone neutral.
“I loved you.”
Oh. The confession had been delivered with the same flat tone as the rest, but it echoes in Tord’s ears like the aftermath of a gunshot. His head whips around and he stares at Tom, slack-jawed and wide-eyed. Surely he misheard. “What?” it’s barely a whisper, so he’s not sure Tom even hears it.
“I miss you.”
Tord wants to scream. Words like these should never be spoken like this. It feels sick- he feels sick. They churn in his stomach like burning acid, and he hates Tom for speaking them like facts instead of feelings. He can feel it welling up in his throat and isn’t smart enough to prevent what comes out next, “What is wrong with you?”
Inky pools flash dangerously, and Tord knows with absolute certainty that he’s messed up. “What’s wrong with me?” There’s a growl in his voice, and Tord briefly regrets wishing for an emotional response. “You almost killed us and you’re asking what’s wrong with me?”
“Thomas I’m sorry, I-” he’s cut off by a hand fisting in the front of his shirt.
“You don’t get to be sorry you commie fuck!” he’s much closer to shouting now, practically spitting the words in Tord’s face. “You don’t get to be sorry when you come back and pull that shit! You don’t get to be sorry for lying and turning them against me! You don’t get to be sorry for bruising Matt’s face! You don’t get to be sorry when you destroyed our home! You don’t get to be sorry when you killed someone and would have killed us if I hadn’t shot you out of the air!”
He’s breathing hard. Tord tries to focus on that, but he’s dizzy. His heart is pounding so hard that he can hear it in his ears. After all this time, he never realized. They really think- Tom really thinks-? “I never would have killed you, Thomas!” he exclaims in disbelief.
“Bullshit.” There are tears welling in Tom’s eyes. His voice is shaky, but his face is still contorted in absolute fury. “That’s fucking horse shite and you know it! You would have killed anyone who got in your way you fucking psychopath! You wo-!”
“Stop.” He can’t take it anymore. It’s every nightmare he’s ever had all mixed up in a single moment. He knows he fucked up, but to have his failures thrown in his face like this? He wants to be angry, to fight back like he used to, but he’s too tired. He can’t play this game anymore.
Tom’s eyes are narrowed into thin slits. “Don’t tell me what to do, asshole!”
“Okay.” Tord’s defeated tone apparently pisses Tom off more, because it earns him a bruised cheek. He tries not to see the irony as Tom lands hit after hit on an unwilling opponent. Finally Tord lightly grabs his fist and asks gently, “Are you done?”
He catches him as Tom falls forward, sobbing into the fabric of Tord’s shirt. Tord is startled to say the least, unprepared for this change of mood. He does know what to do, so he starts rubbing circles on his back like Edd used to do when one of them was sick. He doesn’t have any other options- doesn’t know what to do or say. He can’t fix this. He was a fool to come back, but he’d known that from the start.
It isn’t clear who moves first or how exactly they end up pressed together, blood mixing with clash of lips and tongues. It isn’t love or passion; it isn’t really what either of them want. It’s anger and sorry and pity and regret. It’s all of the things neither of them have the words for. It’s tearing each other apart bit by bit in the most excruciating way possible, because throwing punches is no longer a sufficient means of punishment. It’s destroying their entire world all over again.
Hours pass and finally things are quiet. The city is quiet in the way it only is after a storm and just before the dawn. It should be peaceful, but while the tension may be gone, all that’d managed to take its place is the flat sort of exhaustion that comes after a truly horrific loss. Tord is wrapped up in Tom’s arms, marked and spent. They’ve been silent for some time now, and he isn’t eager to shatter it just yet.
He feels Tom press a kiss to his hair, and the gentleness of the act cuts deeper than a blade ever could. “I want you gone before I wake up,” he whispers softly.
Tord’s arms are wrapped around his waist and squeeze tight for a moment before going slack. “Okay,” he agrees.