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Ｐｉａｎｏ Ｍａｎ ；
ＴｏｍＴｏｒｄ
𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺'𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢 𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦…
The house had been left to the two roommates. Both Edd and Matt had left earlier that day, and wouldn't be back for nearly three days. It left both Tom and Tord in a very difficult situation.
Any kind of deeper feelings and denial were already up in the air, even with their other two friends around.
But alone?
The tension was intoxicating.
They had both taken to completely avoiding each other. Because ignoring your problems were bound to make them go away. Right?
Tord kept track of every time Tom's door closed or opened. He would only leave the confines of his own space when he knew that Tom wasn't out and about.
Ignoring each other completely seemed to be going fairly well until the sun started to set.
Hunger drew the Norwegian out of his room despite the fact that he knew Tom was downstairs too. It was almost ridiculous to keep this up.
Tord wasn't scared of Tom, not in the slightest. Why let a childish anxiety keep him from fulfilling whatever needs he had?
If Tom didn't like it, he could go fuck himself.
Or maybe Tom could fuck him.
Either way, he didn't plan on being more than a few minutes.
The thought made the Norski let out a long, mental sigh. This was starting to get out of control.
Predictably, Tom was settled on the couch. It was after five, so there was a bottle of vodka in his hand.
Alcohol didn't sound too bad right now…
Tord must have lingered in the living room for a moment too long, because he was shot a mostly empty look from the other man.
"You're staring. What's your problem? I swear if you tell me one of your projects went wrong--"
"Do you want dinner?"
Tom faltered slightly at how he was cut off, not expecting that from the other at all. It was suspicious. When had Tord ever offered to do something nice without an ulterior motive..?
"Why?"
Tom's voice was flat, dark eyes narrowing just slightly.
It earned a frankly overdramatic eye roll from the man in question.
"Because I'm making dinner. If you want some, take it. Christ. Are you always this paranoid?"
Tom's scoff followed Tord as he made his way into the kitchen.
"Whatever. I don't care either way."
Silence settled over the house again, the only sounds coming from Tord as he prepared macaroni and cheese -- of course from a shitty box. It's not like anyone in this house knew how to actually cook.
A few minutes later, he returned to the living room, setting a bowl in front of Tom before he settled himself into the recliner beside the couch.
A mutual glance was shared, before Tord leaned back and began to eat.
They went on like this, in silence. Every second seemed to drag on uncomfortably, the unspoken truth of their existence bubbling over, from a boil to threatening to completely spill everywhere.
Tom broke first. It was a small victory in Tord's mind as the Brit passed the bottle to Tord.
"I'm only sharing because you look like shit and you made me dinner."
The pleased, shit eating grin on Tord's face made Tom regret it. Like he'd somehow lost a battle that he didn't even know he was in.
"I can't help to look like this. You'd look the same if you've been up for 52 hours."
He took the bottle by the neck, and gauged Tom's reaction to his statement. He knew what he was going to ask before his lips even moved.
"Finishing a project. Don't think about it too hard."
He slid his half finished bowl onto the coffee table before taking a swig of the booze that had so kindly been gifted to him.
Tord didn't drink too often, too wary of having his wits about him. With his recreational activities, he needed to be vigilant. So needless to say, it burned going down. He didn't have the same tolerance that Tom had.
He grimaced at the taste, but before he handed back the bottle, he took another quick sip.
The look on Tord's face made Tom grin, empty but amused as he took his bottle back.
"You know, you're not as good at hiding your feelings as you think."
The words were chased with another mouthful of vodka, and Tom was a little pressed that he was too drunk to fully enjoy the flash of genuine shock and embarrassment that cracked Tord's usual composure.
Brows pinched together, and he roughly took the bottle back to Tom.
Another sip. And another.
It was passed off again, a red sleeve coming up to wipe at chapped lips.
"Neither are you. I'm not stupid. But whatever this is, it's--"
"Bullshit."
Another sip. Another pass off.
"And completely--"
"Pointless."
Sip. Pass.
"And we know that. . ."
Sip. Pass.
"It's going to end in fucking flames."
When Tord was given the bottle back again, the effects were finally starting to slowly catch up with him. His cheeks felt warm, and his head was starting to get fuzzy.
The panic in his chest that came with being confronted was dulled to a soft ache of longing and bittersweet acceptance that they'd never twin and twirl into a healthy and normal relationship.
He could see why Tom drank so much and so often. The band-aid on crazed emotions was a nice safety net.
He didn't pass it back as he tipped back a long gulp. His Adam's apple bobbed as he took down as much as he could.
He only pulled the bottle back when his stomach was threatening to throw up everything inside of it.
Instead of giving it back, he set the bottle aside.
If he was already feeling shitfaced, he couldn't imagine how far gone Tom was.
And this wasn't a conversation they should be having when Tom wouldn't remember what happened in the morning.
The silence was awkward now, and not just suffocating. Things were said that couldn't be taken back. A mutual knowledge of feelings that were now in the open.
At the end of the day, Tord didn't know how much of it was tension. A sexual driven desire. How much was actually emotional.
Fuck emotions.
They only ever seemed to make things more complicated.
A few minutes passed like this. Tord picking at the material of his jeans, Tom trying to pretend he was actually focused on what was playing on the television.
Again, Tom cracked first.
Huffing out an exhausted breath as he stood.
"Look. Forget it. I'm going to bed. Keep the bottle."
He stepped forward, but before he could take off completely, Tord snatched his wrist.
"Okay, no! You don't get to say all that and not--"
"Not what?"
The challenge in Tom's words wasn't missed.
"And not -- do this!"
Harsh fingers dug into the flesh of Tom's cheeks as he pulled him down, crashing their lips together.
Tom's eyes widened considerably, jolting just slightly to pull away on instinct, before he melted into it.
Tord tasted like vodka. And mint gum. Cinnamon toothpaste. Overall spicy and harsh and he didn't know if he'd ever be able to get over it.
Lips worked harsh and hateful against Tom's, pointed teeth nipping on his lower lip. Biting down hard enough to draw forward a drop of blood.
His tongue came out to lick it away, Tom's eyes falling shut as he leaned farther into it.
Pale fingers came up to thread through spiked locks, forcing him even closer.
The passion was bruising.
Tord only moved back to breathe, both men panting softly under their breath.
Tom's eyes slowly opened again, and Tord could bathe in the flustered blush that creeped onto Tom's features for eternity.
"There. Now you can go. See you in the morning, Thomas."
The Brit's mouth opened and closed a few times, trying to find something to say back to that. Something to fire back with.
Anything.
His mind was too blank to do so.
He simply flicked the Norwegian off with both of his hands before he snatched his bottle of vodka and retreated up the stairs.
It would be an interesting topic to breach again in the morning, but for now, Tord was content to relish in knowing he'd forever know what it felt like to kiss Tom.
And Tom was content to put the taste of Tord away in his memories.
They'd both be going to bed with one less weight on their shoulders that night.