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It’s so simple.
All he has to do is to not think about it.
Don’t think about it.
Such an apt ability one such as himself is perfectly capable of doing. Look, he could even do it with his eyes closed, hands off the handle. He’s riding this metaphorical bike just alright, a natural is what he is.
Brilliant. Absolute brilliance, right here.
All he’s doing.
Is.
Not.
Thinking about it!
He flips the page of the manga, he’s reached the last chapter. Definitely Towards a Happy Future!, says the title, and the cover page…
“What are your thoughts on marriage?”
There had been some subtle tuning of a bass in the background, but that abruptly cut off once his voice had entered the space. It’s silent in the room, and Tord wonders if it’ll stay that way. He’s teetering between the scales of “yeah” and “nah” in the meantime, until it starts leaning over the former when a minute passes. Two minutes. Three minutes. He’s reciting the lyrics to Plastic Love in his head and he’s a bit surprised that he’s managed to play the whole song twice.
Finally, Tom answers.
“Meh.”
Tord snaps his manga closed, drops it to the side, and rolls on the bed. “How articulate of you. Truly, your vocab knows no bounds. How blessed am I to bear witness to such poetry from Lord Linguistic, Duke Dictionary, God of Grammar—”
When Tom threatens to hit him with that poor excuse of an instrument, held up only with tape and a prayer, Tord yields behind a pillow. He feels a thump. Tom apparently threw his manga back at him.
“Just—” Tom is saying, “I don’t know. Just. Meh.”
“So. What? You're just gonna stay single forever? Die alone at a retirement home with checkered overalls and Susan the 58th?”
“Susan the 57th, I’m of the belief I can lessen at least one replacement.”
“Oh, I was being generous. I am of the belief that you would probably destroy that thing 76 more times.”
“Look at that, tiny miracles, it isn’t a three digit number.” Tom’s already left his side, setting Susan the Current by a drawer. He’s bending down, and the sudden stack on his hands reminds Tord of how he’d also thrown aside a few volumes of the title he’d been reading. His gaze follows Tom moving across the room, designating himself to put the leftovers somewhere less hazardous for tripping that most definitely had never happened before. A bruise on his calf pulses. He pokes it, reprimanded.
(Peculiar, how his mangas don’t look out of place here.)
“Ask me.”
“Ask you what?”
“My thoughts.”
“On marriage?”
“Ask.”
Tom scoffs, yet plays along. “What do you think of marriage?”
“I think we should get married.”
Tom stops. Tord’s heart mirrors him.
They’re staring.
One beat, two beats, three beats.
To tsuzen no kisu ya,
atsui manazashi de —
“Commie—”
“Not now, obviously.” Tord snickers. It’s breathy. He stands up from the bed, goes to Tom. Leans on the wall, hands in pockets. Damp. Damp. He smirks. Smirks. Smirks. Tom stares. “First things first, you and I, well, we’re not even—” He laughs.
Laughs.
And laughs.
It’s breathy.
“We’re not—”
(Peculiar, how the bed has checkered sheets and a single red pillow. Peculiar, how the bass is held up with tape from his personal toolbox. Peculiar, how his mangas don’t look out of place next to Tom.)
Tom stares at him. He’s chewing on his lip. It’s bruised. He wonders if it’s pulsing.
“I… heard. From someone . That there’s this thing friends—people—anyone really—do. An agreement, that down the road they both find themselves still single at a certain age then they—”
“They get married, yeah. Yeah. You’re talking about a marriage pact, right?” Tom’s expression melts into understanding, and Tord feels a little less tense. A little less winded. A little less scared.
“Precisely.”
“Yeah, I already got that.”
Crack, crack, crack, goes the shattering of Tord’s entire world. “What.”
Tom isn’t looking at him anymore, seemingly kicking at some nonexistent dirt patch on the carpet, and he doesn’t know if that’s worse than the persistent staredown he had prior. “Matt asked me.”
“Matt?!”
“Uh, it’d ideally be when we’re 40—”
“Matt?!”
“—and still single, of course—”
“Matt?!”
“Yes! Matt!!”
“Matt couldn't have asked you! Because he told me about this, and how he had a pact with Edd!”
“ Ah, yeah. I know about that, too.”
Tord throws his hands up. “And you’re— you’re okay with that?”
“Well, from what I remember, they got a different set of terms and conditions, like it’s when they're 45—“
“You’re first?”
Tom’ bruised lip twitches. He rubs at it and shrugs, arms now crossed and back resting on the wall next to Tord. “What? You want in on Matt’s pact, too?” He’s close. “You can take his 35-year-old slot, I’m pretty sure Jon has his 50.”
Tord scowls, his own lip quirked up real ugly. “I don’t want to be in a marriage pact with Matt,” he hisses, leaning in, arm braced on the wall. “I want a marriage pact with—“
They’re close.
They're staring.
Watashi no koto wo kesshite
Honki de aisanaide
Koi nante tada no geemu
Tanoshimeba sore de ii no
Tozashita kokoro wo kazaru
Hade na doresu mo kutsu mo
Kodoku na tomodachi
Tord brings up a hand, palm wide open. “30 years old.”
Tom blinks. His lip twitches again. “What if I already got someone at 30?”
“29 years old.”
“Tord.”
“28 years old, and eleven months.”
Bruised lips stretch into a poorly concealed grin. “Whose age are we basing that on?”
“Mine. I’m older. 28 years old, ten months, three weeks.” He pulls his sleeve back to check his watch. “At 11:58PM. No, 11:57PM.”
“Tord!”
“BST, got that, Thomas?”
“Fucking—” Tom’s covering his face, sliding a bit down the wall. Tord’s barely able to catch him when he springs back up, hands off, revealing a very empathetic frown.
It would’ve been intimidating if not for the red cheeks, really.
“You’re so fucking weird,” Tom tells him. “Why can’t you just— Can’t you just— We’re— Ugh. Fuck you.”
Yeah, sure. Okay. He can accept that. There’s merit to the words, probably a huge factor as to why he couldn’t stop thinking about this. About what could be. About what should be. Because it feels. It feels like a should . And a should makes him feel. Yeah. And thinking about it makes him feel. Well.
Weird.
And damp.
A little tense.
A little winded.
And kind of. Not so little. Teensy bit of. Scare—
A hand shakes his own—that’s right, it had still been hanging—calloused on the tips of the pointer finger, middle finger, and…
“Weirdo,” Tom repeats when he lets go. He nudges Tord away, walks back to Susan the Current with a blase wave behind him. “Get your dumb comics outta my room, jackass. You’re messing up my pad.”
Tord stares at him, at how Tom is resolutely granting no eye contact as he fiddles with Susan. The tuning of the bass resounds once again into the room. A familiar melody playing.
Tord leaves the stack of mangas untouched, only picking up the latest novel and resuming his read of Chapter 85: Definitely Towards a Happy Future! on checkered sheets, a red pillow under his chin.
He closes the trunk.
He gets in the car.
He starts the engines.
And drives.
They wave. Wave, wave, wave, until the retreating form of red disappears down, down, down the road.
“You okay, Tom?”
“Meh.”