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Tord held Tomee Bear up high above his head, grinning ear to ear like a smug little demon. His arms stretched upward, fingers wiggling the stuffed bear’s arms back and forth in a taunting dance. Tomee Bear’s soft fur and wonky stitched smile swayed with the movement, as if mocking Tom too.
"Du får ikke denne tilbake!" Tord laughed, his Norwegian words mangled with childish joy and mischief. His accent was thick, and the grammar was all over the place, but Tom understood the meaning well enough.
Tom’s brow furrowed beneath the fringe of his wild, spiky hair. He leapt, once, then again, trying to catch his bear. He missed both times, feet barely brushing the carpet. "Tord! Stop it! Give him back!" he shouted, voice already cracking with the threat of tears. He gritted his teeth and grabbed at the edge of Tord’s hoodie, pulling the taller boy down slightly.
Tord just laughed harder, stumbling back with Tom in tow, yanking the bear even higher above his head.
"Nei, nei, nei, ikke rør! I am tall king now," he said with an exaggerated puff of his chest. "You is too short to stop me."
"That’s not fair!" Tom whined, cheeks flushing red, half with rage and half with humiliation. His little fists tugged again at the fabric of Tord’s hoodie, knuckles white. "Tomee Bear is MINE! He’s not yours!"
"Oh, but he is mine now ."
Tom jumped one more time, arms flailing uselessly. His fingers brushed the bear’s dangling leg for half a second, but he couldn’t grab it. He was too short to reach Tord.
Tord smirked. "You want him? Okay... here."
And without warning, he gave one sharp, exaggerated tug on Tomee Bear’s arm.
A horrible rip echoed in the air. Stuffing popped free from the torn seam at the shoulder, like the first pop of popcorn. A few tufts of fluff floated to the floor like slow, silent snowflakes.
Tom gasped, the sound catching in his throat. "N-no—!"
"Haha! He is very weak bear," Tord said proudly, eyes wide with adrenaline and mischief. He held the limp, half-dislocated plush by one remaining arm like it was some kind of victory banner. "Oopsie. My hand slipped, ja?"
Tom’s mouth dropped open in horror. His lip began to tremble, and his knees locked like they didn’t know whether to run or collapse. "Why’d you do that ?!" he shrieked, the pitch of his voice wobbling dangerously. His eyes shone with unshed tears.
"Because you cry too much about him," Tord shrugged, speaking like it was obvious. Then, he twisted the bear around, grip tightening.
Another rip. The other arm dangled, barely attached by a few threads. "NO! STOP IT!" Tom wailed. He lunged forward too late.
The bear's belly was next. The seam along its middle tore with one tug, and soft white fluff exploded out like smoke from a chimney. Tord flinched as a piece of stuffing clung to his hand. He let out a nervous laugh, suddenly unsure, but the damage was done.
Tom’s legs gave out. He dropped to his knees on the carpet with a soft, dull thump. His hands moved fast, frantic, trying to scoop the fluff back into the limp shell of Tomee Bear. His breaths came in shallow little gasps. He hugged the ruined plush to his chest like he could hold it together by sheer will alone and tears burst free. Big, messy tears streamed down his cheeks, hot and blinding. He sobbed into the bear’s stitched-on smile, which now looked warped and sad from the damage.
"Y-you ruined him!" he choked, his voice thick with grief. "He was all I had f-from my family!"
Tord took a single step back, that hadn’t been part of the game. His smirk had vanished completely, replaced with something pale and cold. He glanced down at his hands. The stuffing stuck to his fingers felt sticky, like guilt made tangible. "Tom..." he said quietly, shifting his weight awkwardly. "I was... I was just playing. It was joke."
Tom didn’t answer. His shoulders shook. A hiccup tore from his throat.
"Jeg visste ikke," Tord mumbled.
But Tom wasn’t listening. He was too deep in his own sorrow, rocking slightly on his knees like he could lull the pain away. Tord stood in place, uncertain for the first time all day. He scratched at his neck. He’d won. He’d made Tom cry, and worse than ever before. So why did his chest feel like it was sinking?
Tord chewed his lower lip. Maybe she hadn’t just meant toys. "I can... I fix him? Maybe," he offered suddenly. "We can glue him. Or sew. I can learn to sew. I saw my mamma do once."
Tom shook his head fiercely, clutching the bear closer. He was past hearing.
Tord crouched down slowly, hesitantly. He didn’t get too close.
"Tom... he is still your bear. Even like this. Maybe even stronger? He survive." He tried to smile, but it was awkward and small.
Tom sniffled, eyes red and puffy. "He’s broken. He’s not coming back right."
"But you still have him," Tord replied, softer this time. "Like... like a zombie bear?"
It didn’t get a laugh. Just more quiet sniffling. A long silence followed. Tord picked at a hangnail on his thumb. "You hate me now?" he asked after a moment.
Tom looked up. His expression was so raw and open, it made Tord flinch. "Right now," Tom said, his voice tiny and hoarse, "yeah. I do."
Tord nodded slowly, eyes downcast. He did too. Tom cradled Tomee Bear again, rocking it gently before giving it up to Tord, he wanted it fixed, it was obvious. Eventually, Tord stood up. He turned toward the doorway, dragging his socked feet across the carpet.
He hesitated at the threshold. "I’m sorry," he said, without turning around. "I didn’t mean to ruin it. I just... I wanted you to stop acting like a baby. But maybe I was the baby."
He walked out, taking Tom’s Tomee Bear with him, the air thick with tension and the sound of quiet, muffled sobs echoing behind him. Guilt clawed at Tord’s insides with every step, dull and heavy like a rock in his chest. He didn’t know why he’d done it. He hadn’t meant to go that far, it was supposed to be a joke, just to tease Tom a little, get a rise out of him. But instead, he'd broken something precious. Really broken it. And the image of Tom crying over the torn remains of his beloved bear wouldn’t stop haunting his mind.
He clenched his small fists as he marched down the hallway, his jaw set with determination. He couldn’t undo what he did, but he could fix it. He would fix it.
That night, instead of playing video games or watching cartoons, Tord sat hunched over his desk, pencil in hand. His tongue stuck out slightly in concentration as he began sketching. If he was going to fix this, it had to be cool , even better than the original Tomee Bear. This one wouldn’t just be a bear, no, it would be a warrior! A protector! He scribbled furiously, sketching armor plates on the bear’s stubby limbs, a little helmet with a visor that could flip down, and even a removable foam sword that could attach to the back with velcro.
Tord imagined how Tom would react. He’d stare, wide-eyed, as Tord handed it to him, maybe his lower lip would tremble a little, but he’d forgive him. Maybe he’d even smile again.
But even Tord, for all his optimism, knew it wouldn’t be enough.
The next morning, after stuffing the armor sketches into his backpack, Tord checked his secret stash of pocket money. Coins and crumpled notes sat in a metal lunch tin under his bed, barely enough for snacks after school, but today he had a mission. He gathered it all, every single coin , and headed out early, slipping past his parents with mumbled excuses about extra homework.
After school, he ran across town to a little corner shop that fixed stuffed toys. The windows were old and fogged up, but through them he could see shelves lined with plush animals, many mid-repair, some looking almost good as new. A kind-looking woman with big glasses looked up from her sewing machine as he stepped inside.
"Can I help you, sweetie?"
Tord fumbled with his backpack, unzipping it and gently pulling out the cloth bag that held what remained of Tomee Bear. He carefully placed the bear’s torn body on the counter.
"He... he got hurt real bad," Tord mumbled, looking down at his scuffed sneakers. "Can you fix him? I have money. I can pay."
The woman’s expression softened immediately as she picked up the bear’s limp form, examining the tears and missing pieces. "This little guy’s been loved a lot, hasn’t he?" she said kindly. "We can fix him. Might take a few days, though."
Tord nodded quickly, relief washing over him. He dug into his backpack and placed his collection of coins and notes on the counter. The woman counted it, then smiled again. "It’s just enough. I’ll make sure he’s stitched up real nice."
"Tusen takk," Tord murmured, his voice thick.
He walked out of the shop with his heart lighter than it had been the day before. Now, he just had to wait. While Tomee Bear was being repaired, Tord got to work on building the armored version too. He borrowed scraps of felt and fabric from the art room at school, snuck some thread from home, and even convinced the librarian to teach him a few stitches. It wasn’t perfect—his stitches were crooked and the armor didn’t line up right, but it had character . It was made with real effort.
He named it "Tactical Tomee," and he imagined the bear coming to Tom's defense with tiny war cries, sword raised high, ready to fight off nightmares.
Finally, three days later, the repair shop called. Tomee Bear was ready.
Tord rushed to the shop as soon as school ended, his legs aching from the sprint. The woman behind the counter smiled and handed him a neatly wrapped package, tied with a soft blue ribbon.
Inside was Tomee Bear, stitched carefully along his torn seams, with new stuffing to make him whole again. The small patch on his ear was still there, but now it had been sewn over with a tiny star pattern, almost like a badge of honor.
Tord held the bear gently in his hands, a strange warmth growing in his chest. He whispered quietly to the bear, "You better protect Tom better next time, okay?"
After making sure both Tomee Bear and Tactical Tomee were safely packed in his backpack, he made his way to Tom’s house. He hesitated on the porch, heart thudding nervously. What if Tom slammed the door in his face? What if he hated what Tord brought?
But he knocked anyway.
Tom’s mum opened the door with a puzzled look. “Oh! Hello, Tord.”
“Is Tom home?” he asked, gripping the strap of his bag tightly.
She nodded and stepped aside. “He’s in his room. Still a bit upset.”
Tord walked down the familiar hallway, each step heavier than the last. He reached Tom’s room and gave a small knock.
“Go away,” came Tom’s muffled voice.
“It’s me,” Tord replied. “I… I brought something.”
There was silence, then a shuffling sound. The door cracked open, and Tom’s red-rimmed eyes peered through. The sight made Tord wince.
“I’m sorry,” Tord blurted out. “Like… really sorry. I was a jerk. A big, dumb jerk. I didn’t mean to wreck your bear, Tom.”
He opened his backpack and pulled out the blue-wrapped package, holding it out with both hands. Tom looked at it suspiciously, but took it. He slowly unwrapped the ribbon, and as the wrapping fell away, his breath hitched.
"T-Tomee Bear?" he whispered.
“He’s all better,” Tord said softly. “Fixed him for you like promise.”
Tom stared at the bear, running his fingers gently over the new stitches. His lip quivered again, but this time no tears came.
“And I… I also made this,” Tord added, pulling out Tactical Tomee. “In case you ever need a backup. He’s got armor and everything. Kinda cool, huh?”
Tom blinked down at the second bear, eyes wide.
“You… made this?”
Tord nodded. “It’s not perfect, but… I wanted to try.”
Tom stared at both bears, then looked back up at Tord. There was still hurt in his eyes, but also something gentler. “You’re still a jerk,” Tom muttered.
“I know,” Tord agreed.
“But… thanks.”
.
.
.
Tord screamed as he pointed forward on the battlefield, robotic arms jerking with forceful, sharp movements. The metallic whir of gears spun in rhythm with his frantic orders, and the synthetic muscle fibers glowed an angry red as they strained under the stress. Smoke choked the air around him, shrapnel flying like angry insects, and every breath felt like inhaling fire. His boots slammed into the earth, stained with ash and blood, each step carrying the weight of a war that had spiraled far beyond his intentions.
“East squad, move! Nå! Now!” Tord barked into the communicator latched to his collar, his accent bleeding through his words in moments of stress. “Reposition behind the left ridge cover fire on the north nest!”
A voice crackled back. “Roger that, Commander.”
This wasn’t supposed to happen. None of this was. What started as a simple show of power had morphed into an outright war, the kind of war that turned cities into scars and soldiers into ghosts. Tord had never intended to be on the front lines again. Not personally. Not like this.
But with every failed negotiation, with every act of sabotage, the chaos piled higher. Until there was no one left to send but himself.
He ducked behind a broken supply truck, checking his pulse rifle. Half a clip. Good enough. His eyes flicked to the towering structure ahead, the enemy’s eastern base. A jagged skeleton of steel and wire, crude but fortified. The upper section was shadowed under thick paneling. Sniper perch. He narrowed his eyes and raised his rifle, tracking movement in the gloom. One... two... three shapes. Then a gleam. A scope glinting in the sun. His aim shifted instinctively. He could take the shot.
But something was wrong.
The glint wasn’t aimed at him. The angle didn’t match. His breath caught in his throat, heart squeezing with sudden dread. Then he saw it, a flicker of navy blue in his peripheral vision. A black vest. A torn, familiar blue dress shirt beneath.
Tom.
The eyeless man dashed forward with careless speed, gun raised, completely unaware of the scope locked on him.
Tord’s body reacted before his mind could fully grasp what was happening. “TOM! DUCK NED! DUCK DOWN!!” he screamed, lungs burning, voice tearing out of him like it could physically push Tom to safety.
Too late.
The sniper’s shot cracked through the battlefield like lightning, a single, sharp note in the chorus of chaos. Time stuttered. The bullet sliced through the air with cruel precision, and Tord watched, helpless, as it found its mark. Tom’s head jerked back violently, the momentum throwing him off balance. His gun dropped from limp fingers as his body crumpled into the dirt like a ragdoll. No scream. No final glare. Just silence. Sudden, haunting silence.
Tord didn’t remember moving. One moment, he was standing. The next, he was sprinting, feet hammering the earth, eyes locked on the still body ahead of him.
“No, no, nei, nei nei nei nei!” he rasped, mechanical fingers trembling as he dropped to his knees beside him. Blood pooled beneath Tom’s head, vibrant and unreal in the dust. His goggles had cracked. His expression was frozen, not of pain, but of nothingness.
Just... gone.
Tord's breath hitched. He reached out slowly, like touching Tom too hard might make it worse. He gripped his shoulder, then shook it, desperate. “Kom igjen, Tom. Come on, wake up, wake up...”
He looked up, eyes locking onto the sniper perch high above. His robotic arm twitched violently, servos whining as the fury surged, he could take that whole tower down with one blast if he wanted to . Maybe he should. Maybe he will . But his trembling fingers remained on Tom, the only thing grounding him to the moment, the only thing stopping him from losing it completely.
Fury. Despair. Guilt. They swirled inside him like a hurricane with no eye. How many times had he imagined something like this? Not like this.
His body tensed, the scream building in his throat.
Then, a weak cough, raw and real, interrupted his spiral. “You jerk… let me rest already.”
The voice was hoarse, breathy, fragile. But it was his voice.
Tord's head whipped down, wide-eyed. “ Tom—! ” He was alive. Somehow. He was alive . “Tom! We need to rush you to the medics right now,” Tord shouted, already sliding his arms under Tom’s back and legs, metal limbs moving with precision and urgency. But Tom lifted a shaking hand, pressing against Tord’s chest weakly, halting him. Even that touch, pathetic as it was, held surprising weight.
“I was already hurt really badly,” Tom rasped out, each syllable digging deeper. “There’s no… saving, Red Leader sir.” The way he said it, the formality laced into the words despite everything, made Tord’s stomach twist into knots. He hated it.
“I am your leader, as you said,” he growled, voice breaking with the strain of held-back tears, “which means you listen to me, Tom. I’m ordering you to stay alive. Do you hear me?” His voice cracked midway. He didn’t care. “They’ll fix you. The medics’ll fix this,” he whispered, pulling Tom closer, ignoring the warm blood seeping into his uniform. “You’ll be alright. You’ll be alright, Tom— ”
Tom didn’t answer at first. The broken visor over his left eye had been splintered by the impact of the bullet, it hadn’t shattered completely, but a deep fracture ran through it, jagged like a wound. Through it, Tord saw a glimmer. A twitch. Then…
Tears.
A single trail sliding down Tom’s pale cheek. Then another.
Tord froze.
It didn’t matter that the visor obscured most of his expression. That one detail was enough.
Tom was crying.
The strongest man Tord had ever known, the most stubborn, proud, unrelenting bastard, was crying. And not from pain. Not from fear. But something else entirely.
“…Why?” Tom whispered suddenly. “Why did you yell my name like that?”
Tord blinked. “What do you mean—?”
“You sounded… scared.” Tom’s voice trembled. “That’s not like you.”
Tord looked away. His jaw clenched, his grip on Tom tightening unconsciously.
“Because I was, Tom. I was, no, I am scared,” Tord admitted, his voice barely above a breath. “Scared of losing you. Of not saying what I should’ve said years ago. Of... of you not knowing.”
Tom gave a weak, bitter laugh that crumbled into a coughing fit, his chest rattling. “You’re dramatic, Tord… always were.”
Tord gave a shaky chuckle in return, the sound raw at the edges. His face crumpled, pressing his forehead gently against Tom’s. It felt like the smallest gesture in the middle of the world breaking apart, but it was all he could offer.
“Yeah? I think you’re the one being dramatic right now, Tom,” Tord whispered, trying, desperately trying, to sound lighthearted. “Come on. We’re getting you to the medics. This instant.”
Tom’s lips curled into something resembling a smile, but it was thin. So faint. The color was draining from his face faster now, and each breath felt like it took more than it gave back.
“I’m not… Tomee Bear, Tord,” he croaked, a frail laugh escaping him. “There’s no fixing this. Not anymore.”
Tord froze.
That name, Tomee Bear , cut through everything like a blade. A jagged memory, still warm and raw. The stupid stitched bear, torn apart by childish cruelty and guilt. The sleepless nights Tord spent drawing redesigns, begging someone to sew it back together. Hoping that, somehow, it would fix more than just fabric and stuffing.
But it hadn’t been enough, not even then.
And now, it was happening again.
“Don’t say that,” Tord whispered, his voice cracking. “You’re not broken. We can fix this. I swear on all my inventions.”
Tom didn’t answer right away. He turned his head slightly, the broken visor glinting under the dim light, its spiderweb cracks catching the red glow of distant fire. “You always think everything can be fixed with enough effort,” Tom murmured. “But sometimes… sometimes, things break in ways that can’t be unbroken. And that’s okay.”
Tord clenched his jaw. “ But it’s not okay. Not this time.”
Tom's hand, so weak now, lifted and rested against Tord’s collarbone. His fingertips trembled, barely able to hold contact. Still, he managed to tug just slightly, like an old friend reaching across the years.
“Don’t hate yourself for this, Tord,” he whispered. “Not again.”
The last time someone had told Tord that, he’d been a child, clutching the remains of a bear with a shredded seam. He hadn’t believed it then.
He didn’t believe it now. “I should’ve said it earlier,” Tord muttered, voice heavy with everything he never got the chance to say. “Back then. Before the war. Before I left. I, jeg er lei for det , Tom. I’m sorry. For everything.”
Tom smiled, just slightly. “I know. Me too.”
The moment hung there. Fragile. Precious. Final.
Tom’s breathing slowed, each inhale shallower than the last.
And then it stopped.
Tord didn’t react at first. He just stayed there, forehead pressed to Tom’s, waiting. Hoping.
But no breath came.
No more words.
No more Tom.
Tord’s robotic hand curled tightly into the dirt, claws sinking into the mud like he could claw time backward if he just tried hard enough. His other hand cradled Tom against him, holding him the same way he had once held a tattered bear and whispered promises of repair.
He looked down at him, at the man who had fought beside him, screamed at him, forgiven him, laughed with him.
At the boy who had once cried over Tomee Bear.
And then, for the first time in a long, long while…
Tord cried, too.
He didn’t sob. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t violent. It was quiet. A steady stream, falling onto the broken visor. He rocked back slowly, cradling Tom's body, just like how Tom cradled Tomee Bear, and through gritted teeth, whispered in a language too sacred for the battlefield.
“Farvel, Tom. Jeg skulle ha tatt bedre vare på deg…” He looked up then, eyes burning red, full of something deeper than vengeance. Deeper than anger.
Resolve.
He had failed to fix Tom.
And the war wasn’t over.
As the wind howled and fire blazed in the distance, Red Leader rose from the dirt, cradling the man that he held dearest. The battlefield went quiet around him, as if the world itself had paused to mourn. And in the silence, the sound of distant metal clinking echoed softly, his robotic fingers brushing something in Tom’s pocket.
It was a picture of him and Tord during their childhood times, and Tomee Bear resting on the shelf, its stitches still clear as day. Tord closed his fingers around it, held it close to his chest, and marched forward.
This time, he wouldn’t look back.