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ＴＲＡＣＥ；
ＴｏｍＴｏｒｄ
Call it what you wanted -- a breakthrough, a realization, an ephiany -- a harsh smack of reality, but whatever it was, it meant the same thing.
Tord and Tom seemed to agree on their own that after the last fiasco of kinky sex, they should attempt to cool things down.
No power plays, no stolen touches that they knew would always lead to something more. No nothing, really.
While normal days were spent with the two constantly at each other's throats, picking arguments out of nothing but boredom, anything to simply cause a bump of misery in the others' day was all they did.
Ever.
All day.
But to each man's dismay, with the strain on the relationship type thing they had going on, without normalcy, they took too avoiding each other.
Tord, as he did more often than not, chose to isolate himself. To retreat from a form of stress that he didn't have the ability to completely decimate.
Tom gave him his space. It felt like the easiest way to deal with things, to let Tord run out his feelings until they could meld back into their toxic, dependent, colorful struggle.
A desperate cast on either of their parts to try and cling to any shred of human affection they could catch.
It was late, and not the, 'It's 10pm do you know where your children are?,' kind of late, but the late where on every popular news channel there were reruns of old cartoons that hadn't been cast in at least twenty years.
The late where it was so quiet, so dark, so still, that even in a house full of four people, with a yellow glow and too loud and fake voices on the television, the air was unsettling.
Like he was living in a horror movie.
He expected his phone to ring any second with a cliched, 'What's your favorite scary movie?," right before the front door was knocked down.
What followed, instead, was arguably scarier.
The sight of Tord coming down the stairs was a vision all in it of itself.
Engulfed fully in a red hoodie that was pulled up to hide wild, dusty rose hair, hands tucked into the open pocket, the whites of his eyes startling in how bright they were in the dark of the room.
Tom figured he must be exhausted, figured he must have spent most of these days mulling over a million worst case scenarios and conflicted feelings so many times that each thought was deep fried to oblivion.
He hated how utterly well he knew Tord, it was to be expected that he knew at least a little about him due to being around him for so long, but it was more than that.
He knew the man's inner workings almost better than he knew his own.
It didn't have to be said.
The exhaustion on Tord's face melded with his personality made it obvious.
He was scared of being weak, of developing feelings.
Of having any element of his life not placed under his thumb. If he didn't have all the control, then he was prone to lashing out.
Tord was paranoid.
The only thing was, he didn't know what the other man had to be so scared of.
What could he possibly be hiding that caused him to be so horribly terrifying when it came to keeping secrets..?
Black eyes watched as Tord made his way across the living room, and as he moved to sit, Tom slid his brown paper bag of happiness beneath the couch.
"Hey."
Tord's right cheek twitched, as if Tom's voice had been enough to piss him off completely. The silence that followed didn't prove to make Tom pity the other, it just irritated him.
Seriously?
He understood being a shut in, but it'd been days.
He offered the first move, a way into a conversation after ignoring each other for so long, and Tord still refused to take it.
"You can at least tell me to go fuck myself, the quiet treatment is the biggest dick move in history."
Still no response. All he got in return was an unsettling glare from the Norwegian, and the Brit took note of that look.
It was one of many, but this was the one he unlovingly dubbed as the 'Dahmer,' inclusive of everything a psychopath held within them.
Dead eyes, cool and grey, a thousand yard stare. Even knowing that Tord was looking at him, it felt like he was looking right past him.
No doubt he was probably thinking over a million and one ways that he could murder him right here, right now.
All of which without being caught.
It took nearly a minute of the silence, of Tord's empty gaze flitting like he was looking for something, for Tom to let it go.
He turned his attention back to the television, and the moment that he had, Tord finally moved. He walked like a zombie.
So Tord was exhausted.
Good then, he was right. He usually was when it came to the Norwegain.
"Are you going to stop acting like an asshole?"
The drunk's quip wasn't unexpected, but it was unwelcome.
"I feel like shit."
The couch shifted roughly as Tord flopped down, and Tom scoffed at the words.
"You're being dramatic."
"Fuck you."
Tord moved to rest his head on Tom's shoulder, staring ahead at the source of light in the room.
A small sigh fell from the Brit's lips, an arm coming up to hook around Tord's shoulder.
"Dude, you are like a furnace. Have you been curled up in your bed for a week straight or something?"
There was a noncommittal grunt in response.
"Okay. Well, I got six words out of you, I guess that's a start."
Gently, one of Tom's hands moved to pull down a red hood, fingers threading into mussed hair.
The second he did, he jolted back, as if burnt, and, well --
"Dude! No wonder you feel like shit, you gotta be at least 38 degrees, you're on fire. No, alright, you have to take that hoodie off, you're going to kill yourself."
"No! Fuck off! I only came here to bug the shit out of you! Don't touch my god damn -- !"
The foreigner was quick to be cut off as, very effortlessly, Tom pinned Tord down. Despite the kicking and flailing and curses, Tord was struck with some common cold or another, and while Tom was scared of catching it, he was more scared of Tord making himself sicker because he wanted to be a stubborn asshole. . .
The bundle of red fabric was removed, and set aside carefully.
Tom's lips twitched into a frown when he was met with bare flesh. Tord more often than not wore some God awful graphic tee beneath his hoodie, like they all did, but it must be his lucky day.
Sex was already off the table, and now it was extra off the table, yet he still had to be faced with a pale expanse of unmarked property.
Or, unbruised property at the very least.
As Tom moved back to sit, he gently guided Tord to lay over the couch, head positioned on his lap, red hoodie used as a barrier and make shift pillow.
A thin throw blanket was grabbed for blindly, and the Brit tugged it down from the back of the couch to lightly drape over the Norwegain.
"I'm not saying thank you."
"Didn't say you had to."
". . . Just, shut it. I'm tired."
If it wasn't overly obvious now, Tord was near dead to the world. Tom's mind came to the very easy conclusion that Tord had probably been sick for a few days, awake, and unwilling to partake in any self care measures.
The reason?
It always boiled down to that God damned paranoia.
As Tom's fingers trailed down from Tord's head to his arm, as he took note of an exposed chest, really looked at the odd lacerations, he felt genuine sorrow for him.
All disagreements and hitches aside, Tord was a friend, and sometimes more.
He couldn't imagine what horrors laid in Tord's own mind, his own mental prison. What could make a man so scared of the world that he'd forgo sleep in a state of vulnerability.
That he'd have to succumb to cuddling up to him like a lost house cat for enough peace of mind to slip away.
What could he have ever seen that would make him scared to sleep?
Scared that if he did, he wouldn't wake up again?
Thoughtful, fingers found new breaks in flesh. Most of them were small, unconcerning.
A few that were obviously from picking at scabs as a child, but there were larger ones. Liked healed over gashes. At least one looked like a burn scar, and one like he'd lost a knife fight with an octopus.
He hadn't noticed them before, or at least, not closely enough to take into account how bad most of them looked.
It was more than being a stupid kid.
These were caused by something serious.
Softness brewed over the previously creepy atmosphere, and Tom melted back into the couch as Tord half slept on top of him.
Seriously, how did Tord manage to be so tired, yet so on edge, that he was literally sleeping with one eye half open?
It reminded the drunk of a puppy, exhausted and dead to the world, but still, somehow, animated.
The amiable silence only lasted as long as Tom could keep his curiosity in check.
"Hey, fireball?"
The small groan he received in response almost made him feel bad, but the way that Tord turned his face to the room instead of deeper into Tom's hoodie spoke wonders.
"What happened here? To get this."
For emphasis, his fingers settled on the large and unsightly burn mark.
Tom was expecting some dramatics, as Tord was usually well in delivering with such. Something like on shitty teen shows, where a person shrivels and recoils, gets all cold and distant because of a weird birthmark or something.
But, to his delighted surprise, this seemed to be one of the few topics that didn't shut the Norwegian off entirely.
Tom wondered if it was just because he was sick, or if it was because he was the one asking, but he knew normally, mentally, Tord would already be a thousand miles gone if asked this by anyone else at any other time.
Instead, Tord just repositioned himself slightly, so he was facing the ceiling instead of Tom's stomach, to tune into the impromptu conversation.
"Ah, I don't really remember well."
Tord's accent was thicker than usual, words dripping like molasses, slow but sure, even despite the messy translations his head made up in his exhaustion.
Tom absolutely adored it. Even if that voice was near always the source of all his anger.
It was just nice to hear someone so put together, sound, well -- normal.
"My dad -- "
"Which one?"
"Don't remember. We were going to this thing, and a thing happened. It was loud. All I really remember is eating a lot of ice cream so I was distracted."
Tom's face scrunched up at that.
"But you don't remember what, like, what..? Blew up?"
"I think it was a car. Gas tank."
War zone, vagabonds, gas line cut, gasoline trailing to their dysfunctional group, and a single match.
Patryck had caught it in time to pull them to take shelter behind a metal desk.
It didn't save a fist sized burn scar on his right shoulder blade.
"Okay. Fine. You were too young. What about this one?"
Tom's fingers trailed to Tord's side, resting just above where ribs threatened to poke out, settling on a deep, long scar.
"It looks like someone took a swing at you. You can't not remember this one."
Technically, Tom wasn't wrong. Knowing it would be harder to lie about this one made his sleep deprived, ill mind tick with frustration
Before his mind caught up with his mouth, he was already talking.
"I got into a fight. I think we were in Poland. Patryck and Paul were preoccupied, so I had to take manners into my own hands."
". . . You mean matters?"
"Mm. You should see the other guy."
Tom knew he didn't want to. The vagueness of everything, the constant addition of odd parentals, it sat wrong with him.
Things didn't seem to be adding up. There had to be some kind of reason that a seemingly normal family could attract so much danger. So much hurt.
Tom slowly moved his arm once more, up and over to tap his finger against Tord's right cheekbone, a shallow scar that almost looked like it was painted on with how delicate it traced over the curve of his face.
Like he'd been born with it or something. . .
"Last one. Because everyone sees this, but no ones asked. So, spill it."
That received a small huff from the Norwegain as he turned his face once more, be it to hide the scar, his flushed expression, or anything else, Tom didn't know.
"What if I don't want to tell?"
"Then don't."
Silence hung in the air once more, for so long that Tom almost thought that Tord had slipped into sleep, but for real this time.
The Brit had even let his head fall back to lean against the back of the couch, eyes falling shut just in time to hear another soft, breathy sound, resigned.
The Norwegain only moved back enough so his words could be understood.
"Bullet."
The word, so clouded, so fuzzy wrapped in that sleepy accent almost didn't sound real.
When it was finally deciphered, Tom was fully alert again. He sat up straight once more, gently nudging the other man to hesitantly turn his gaze back to him.
Tired, dulled eyes blinked blearily into black abysses, and Tom took a mental note to feel awful later about the redness in Tord's eyes from sleepiness.
"Sorry, you have to expand on that one, you already know that."
The beat of quietness that followed was easily spotted as Tord coming to terms that he did, as a matter of fact, know that.
That he'd walked himself into a corner.
The look of pure detached coldness that still managed to piece through Tord's illness sent a chill down Tom's spine, and not for the first time today, or for the first time ever.
It was always a slap in the face to be reminded of how awful Tord was when you managed to watch every little fake personality he had be abused and switched out so constantly…
Still, he supposed he must be the most fucked up one of all, because he still cared to know about how Tord ever found himself in a situation where he could be getting shot at.
After all the time they'd spent together -- spent 𝘪𝘯 each other, if he didn't care, then he'd be the deranged one.
So, patiently, Tom blinked down to Tord and waited for him to work up the nerve to go on.
That eerie expression remained, still, the Norwegain finally spoke up once more, eyes falling shut, intent to lull right back to sleep as soon as he'd satisfied Tom's nosy streak.
"If I tell you, you have to stop talking and let me go to sleep. Deal?"
"Deal."
Tord let out a hum, accepting of the verbal agreement.
"Fine. I was shot at by a rebel on one of my bases being built up a few clicks away from here."
The words were spoken with such conviction and sincerity, but all Tom could do was huff out a breath of a laugh.
"Alright. Fine, you fucking loser, go to bed. You had me all interested too. If that's the best lie you can come up with, it's time for your weird fever brain to sleep."
It really was a pathetic attempt at a joke, or a weird, bullshit story to make him forget about the original question.
But it was a well enough distraction, because Tom found himself focused on the ball of heated skin and shaking limbs resting on him.
Curiosity was put on the back burner as Tom pulled up the thin blanket to cover all of Tord's body, enough to offer some warmth to chilled bones, but not too heavy as to worsen his fever.
As a freckled face was hidden one more, and a small body curled up tighter, hands clutching onto a gifted blanket, Tom's heart swelled.
It was all the easier to tell how drained the other man was, for him to get truly comfortable in plain sight, and Tom was relieved when, without another word, Tord's breathing gave way to his slip into unconsciousness.
Tom's adjustments jostled the couch slightly, as he repositioned the two of them, so he was able to lay down on the couch as well, Tord more or less entirely on top of him.
The heat radiating from the Norwegain was even more notable now. Maybe that fever was higher.
It didn't matter now, though, he supposed.
Tord was comfortable once more and getting in some much needed rest, they had moved past the awkward post argument stage of their fallout, and with new foresight on the fireball, fake or not, meant it had been a productive night.
As his own eyelids grew heavy, he spared one more glance down to Tord's face.
Huh.
That really does look like a bullet grazed him. He couldn't of been telling the truth.
. . . Right?