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Although the party had ended hours ago, the house still looked like a tornado had bored through.
Empty bottles littered every available surface—the coffee table, the windowsills, the furniture, the carpeting, and the top of the old television that Edd insisted on keeping despite its tendency to flicker between channels without warning. Dim amber light spilled from a tilted floor lamp in the corner, its shade half-collapsed under the weight of a forgotten jacket.
The TV seemed to flicker endlessly between channels on mute, cycling through this static snow and abandoned late-night programming. A half-eaten slice of chocolate cake sat abandoned on a paper plate near the edge of the coffee table, the frosting slowly melting onto the plate. Someone’s sunglasses dangled precariously from one blade of the ceiling fan as it swayed with each lazy rotation. The air was thick with layered scents; sale alcohol mixing with the smell of too many sweaty people in too small of a space, something synthetic and cloying that might have been cheap air freshener making a valiant but futile attempt to mask the honest mess underneath.
Tom was sitting on the floor. His back pressed against the base of the couch, spine rigid, knees drawn up toward his chest. One of his legs bounced in a restless rhythm that had no pattern or purpose, just this energy of feeling on edge with nowhere else to go. His left hand gripped a half-empty bottle of vodka, his fingers curled around the neck as if it was the only thing keeping him grounded right now.
He had been drinking steadily for the past two hours, but the alcohol seemed to be working in reverse tonight. It made everything sharper instead of softer, more vivid, when it was supposed to make everything more blurred.
His jaw had been so clenched for such a long time that it ached, that dull throb radiating up into his temples and down into his neck. His gaze stayed locked on the TV screen, but the images never held his attention for more than a few seconds before his mind wandered back to the same restless circle of thoughts that had been plaguing him all evening.
Every few minutes, his eyes would shift toward the hallway that led to the bedrooms. It was just a flick of movement that was barely perceptible, even to himself. It was like a nervous tic he couldn’t control. The house had now settled into that unique kind of quiet that only came after a stampede of chaos.
Everyone had left, gone home, or simply vanished into other parts of the house. Matt had disappeared into his room hours ago. Edd had trudged off to bed after everyone had left and he picked up just a bit so that it’d be easier to clean in the morning.
The house now felt hollow, as it was emptied of voices and energy. But Tom knew, his body knew, that not everyone was asleep. There was this particular quality to true solitude that this didn’t have, a specific weight to being completely alone that was absent tonight. Someone else was awake, moving around in the quiet spaces of the house. He knew that. His nervous system seemed to tuned to that frequency like a radio that couldn’t quite find the right station.
Tom tended to always stay up after parties. Always. It was a compulsion he couldn’t quite name or shake, the need to be the last one conscious. This need to sit in the wreckage and wait for something he couldn’t quite identify. He convinced himself it was about responsbility, about making sure that nothing was on fire. That everyone had gotten home safely. Even though, truly, he didn’t give a damn. But his chest felt tight with anticipation, his heart skipping beats for no reason he wanted to examine too closely.
And tonight felt especially loaded.
The soft sound of footsteps from the hallway made his entire body go rigid.
They were measured. Deliberate. They had this particular cadence that he would have recognized anywhere. Tom’s spine straightened involuntarily, every muscle of his suddenly alert and coiled. He had tried to keep the reaction subtle, but his body betrayed him. His shoulders pulled back, with his breathing going shallow, as his fingers tightened around the vodka bottle until his knuckles went white.
He lifted the bottle to his lips with his hands that were steadier than they had any right to be, and took a long swallow, letting the liquid burn its way down his throat. It hit his empty stomach like this small explosion, spreading wamrth throughout his chest that had nothing to do with comfort and everything to do with emotionally preparing himself.
Tord now appeared in the doorway. Like a shadow given human form. It was casual and composed in that effortless way that had always pissed Tom off. He had been holding a glass of something clear. Alcohol, probably, or maybe just water. Tord didn’t drink as much as him. He was more of a smoker. But, the glass look untouched, condensation gathering on its surface like it had been poured hours ago and just forgotten.
His grey eyes immediately found Tom’s black eyes in the dim light, scanning the scene with methodical precision. Tord took in the scene: the scattered bottles, the defensive curl of Tom’s shoulders, the way he tried to appear unaffected, yet radiated tension like heat off a radiator.
He didn’t smile. Not at first. His gaze lingered on the vodka bottle in Tom’s hand.
But, then came that expression that Tom unfortunately knew too well; that subtle, razor-sharp smirk that could cut class.
“Didn’t figure you for the brooding type, Thomas.”
The use of his full name was deliberate. A small provocation wrapped in silk. Tom’s name sounded different in Tord’s accent.
Tord didn’t wait for permission. Didn’t wait for an invitation. He never did. Not in all the years that Tom had known him. He stepped out from the dim hallway, and into the living room’s amber glow, moving with that particular brand of confidence that existed somewhere between arrogance and simple certainty. It wasn’t this aggressive swagger. More like, fluid grace, like someone who had already proven everything they needed to prove.
He walked slowly. Deliberately. Like someone testing the temperature of water they were about to dive into. His drink swayed loosely in one hand, clearly unimportant, a prop that served no purpose beyond giving his fingers something to do. What mattered was the way his attention focused on Tom like a laser, unwavering and intent.
There was no surprise at finding Tom here. No hesitation about approaching. Just that stupid look of his; sharp, interested, and annoyingly, impossibly calm.
Tom didn’t acknowledge him. At least not immediately. Didn’t flinch or turn or give any sign that he had heard beyond a barely perceptible tightening around his eyes. His dark eyes remained fixated on the TV screen, but his grip on the vodka bottle shift. It wasn’t quite a twitch, but it was close enough to suggest that Tord's presence had registered on some level deeper than conscious thought.
Tord took his time crossing the room, navigating the scattered debris without glancing at the obstacles. He stepped over a tipped-over chair with fluid grace, nudged a bowl of stale chips aside with the toe of his shoe. He avoided a suspicious puddle near the entertainment center, sidestepped a pile of coats that had been abandoned on the floor.
When he reached the couch, instead of collapsing onto the cushions like any normal person would after a long night, he made a different choice. He lowered himself to the floor with controlled movement, cross-legged, spine straight. He wasn’t beside Tom, but directly in front of him. It was close enough to block the TV from view, forcing Tom to look around him, yet still not quite close enough to make contact.
The positioning was calculated to be just inside the bubble of Tom's awareness without crossing any lines that could be called out. He leaned back on one elbow, his whole posture loose and comfortable in a way that was probably designed to be irritating. Like he could sit there for hours, like he had nowhere else in the world he'd rather be.
“You know…,” Tord began, swirling his untouched drink in slow circles, “you’re always like this when I’m around. Fangs out, shoulders up. Like…. A cat that’s been cornered, unsure if it should lash out or run.”
The comparison was delivered with casual matter-of-factness. Tom's jaw tightened fractionally, but he still didn't move his gaze.
“Sulking,” Tord contuined, grey eyes never leaving Tom’s profile. “Like I personally offended your ancestors, and kicked your favorite bass down a flight of stars.”
Tom didn't answer immediately. He swallowed hard, as he then took another sip from the vodka bottle. It was longer than necessary, using it as an excuse to stall and stay silent. The alcohol seemed to burn less now.
“You’re annoying,” he muttered eventually, voice rough from the alcohol and hours of not speaking, hours of sulking. “That’s all there is to it.”
Tord chuckled in response, the sound low, frustratingly knowing, and completely unrepentant.
“Annoying,” he repeated. “Right. I suppose that makes you a masochist, then, considering how you never seem to leave when I show up. You just seem to sit there and take it.”
Tom shifted. The movement was subtle but also defensive. He still couldn’t get himself to look directly at Tord, but the tension in his body flared in quiet pulses. And Tord watched that tiny defensive reaction like a chess player watching an opponent's hand hover over a piece.
“It’s almost flattering, in a twisted sort of way,” he continued. “It’s like I’m a car crash you can’t stop watching. Or perhaps a house fire that’s just pretty enough to be worth the smoke inhalation.”
That earned him a glance, brief but loaded with venom, as Tom's dark eyes flicked toward Tord's face for maybe half a second before darting away again.
"Wrong," Tom said, and his voice had an edge now. "I'm not watching anything. I'm just here because this is where I live, and you're the one who keeps—" He stopped, his jaw tensing as if he were chewing on words that left a bitter taste.
"Keeps what?" Tord asked, leaning forward slightly, closing the gap just enough to make the room feel smaller.
Tom took another drink instead of answering. His leg started bouncing faster.
"You're the one who acts like you own every room you walk into," Tom said finally. "Like you never have to think about how your presence affects other people. Like the rest of us should just adapt to whatever mood you're in."
The words felt both true and insufficient. His free hand had curled into a loose fist against his thigh, knuckles pressing into the denim of his jeans.
"You live here," he continued, quieter now, "you share this space, you eat our food, you leave your shit everywhere. But somehow you still manage to make it feel like you're just... visiting. Like you're above all the mundane bullshit of actually existing in the same space as other people."
Something flickered across Tord's expression. Not quite hurt, but not indifference either.
“Does it not feel like I belong, though?” Tord asked. “You sure act as if I’m still part of the furniture around here.”
Those words seemed to hit differently than either of them had expected. Tom’s stare dropped first, falling back to the TV screen. He took another swig of the vodka, slower this time, like he was buying himself time to think. His leg stopped bouncing entirely, every muscle going tense.
“...Won’t have to worry about it much longer anyway,” Tord said, his tone carefully casual. “I’m thinking about heading out for awhile. Got some things lined up that might take me away.”
“Oh, so you do remember there’s a world outside this house.”
It was automatic. A reflex response. But, it came out tied instead of sharp. It almost seemed like he was sad.
The lack of real heat behind the insult was somehow worse than if he’d screamed it.
Tord didn’t take the bait. Not this time. As he studied Tom’s profile, taking in the way his jaw was clenched, the defensive curl of his spine, the white-kunckled grip on the vodka bottle.
“Funny thing,” he said, voice lower, accent now more sharp. “You always act like you want me gone. You put on this whole show about how annoying I am. How much better everything would be if I’d just disappear. For good.”
He paused, letting the words settle.
“But you know what Edd told me last week? About how you get when I'm not around for a few days. How you drink more, sleep less. How you get snappy with everyone and stop eating regular meals.”
The words sliced clean through whatever defenses Tom had been trying to maintain. Without warning, he pushed himself to his feet, the vodka bottle dangling from his fingers. He turned his back to Tord.
“Well, Edd should learn to shut his fucking mouth,” he muttered, his voice carrying controlled fury.
Tord remained seated, but his posture had shifted, coiled now like a spring under tension.
“Eh. Maybe he should,” he agreed with a casual shrug. “But it’s not Edd I’m worried about. It’s not his sleep schedule that goes to hell. It’s not his emotional state that apparently depends on whether I'm here or not.”
This earned him a laugh; sharp, bitter, completely devoid of joy.
Tom turned halfway around, just enough to look at Tord over his shoulder.
“Fuck you,” he spat, real heat behind his words now. “Do you seriously think I spiral because you’re gone? You think I sit around pining like some pathetic–” He cut himself off, shaking his head sharply. “God, you really can’t help yourself, can you? You always have to make everything about you.”
His voice was rising now, years of accumulated frustration finally finding a target.
“You think you’re so fucking clever. You think you can analyze people like… they’re fuckin’ puzzles to be solved. Figure out which buttons to push to get the reaction you want. Right?”
He started pacing, just a few steps back and forth, nervous energy that needed somewhere to go. His hands were shaking slightly, and he shoved the free one into the pockets of his jeans.
“But you don’t actually want to understand anyone. You just want to prove that you can take them apart. That you’re smarter than everyone else, more perceptive, more fucking better. Whatever. You can go fuck yourself.”
The words felt like they were coming from somewhere deeper than his conscious mind..
Tom didn’t respond immediately. He just watched Tom’s face, studying the micro-expressions that flickered across his features.
“Then why do I hear that you always look worse when I’m not around?” he asked finally, tone stripped of his usual smugness and provocation.
It was just quiet now. Measured. Like he already knew the answer but wanted to see if Tom would have the courage to say it.
“You hate how much you notice,” Tord continued, words precise and deliberate. “You hate that you care. You hate that some part of you is always aware of where I am in the house, whether I’m home or out, what mood I’m in.”
Tom’s chest tightened. The truth of it hit like a physical blow, because it was true, he did fucking notice. He noticed when Tord stayed up late working, the soft glow of light underneath his door. He noticed when Tord skipped breakfast, which usually meant he was in one of his focused moods. He noticed when Tord came home smelling like nicotine, and something else; cologne, perhaps. Or it was just the scent of whatever places he went when he disappeared for days on end.
Tom noticed everything. Catalouged it all without meaning to. He fucking hated it. He hated how much mental space it took up, hated how aware he was of someone he couldn’t stand.
“You come and go from conversations like they’re doors you can walk through whenever you feel like it,” He spat, his voice shaking now with something that wasn’t quite anger, but wasn’t quite painful. “You show up to dinner when you want company. But then you disappear when you don’t. You pretend to be interested in what we’re doing when it suits you and completely indifferent when it doesn’t.”
His voice was getting smaller now, like admitting this was costing him something vital.
“And yeah. Okay. Maybe I do notice. Maybe I do pay attention to your moods. And your patterns. And whether you’re actually present or just physically occupying space.” The confession felt like it was being pulled out of him against his will. “Because caring about you, trying to figure you out, trying to predict what you’re thinking or even feeling, well. It’s fucking exhausting.”
The words hung in the air like something dangerous.
“It’s like trying to have a relationship with someone who’s only half there. Like you’re always holding something back, always calculating, always fuckin’ three steps ahead of whatever conversation we’re actually having.”
His eyes flicked toward Tord and then away again, like he couldn't manage to hold the connection. The shame was crawling up his throat now, hot and bitter.
“Every fucking time I think I’ve figured out how to not give a shit, you do something that pulls me right back in. And I hate it. I hate that I can’t just… not care. I hate that some part of me is always thinking about you.”
The admission felt like bleeding.
Tom’s fists curled even tighter at his sides, as tension radiated from every line of his body. He glanced down at the spilled vodka spreading across the floor and muttered, “It’s not. Whatever. Doesn’t matter.”
Then, quieter, almost like the words had slipped out without permission: “I always fucking notice.”
He glanced back up at Tord, briefly, the his eyes flickered to a point on the wall somewhere over Tord’s left shoulder. Shame now crept into his tone, coloring the words with something vulnerable and raw.
“And I hate that you make me feel like this.”
The admission hung in the air between them like something fragile and dangerous, the kind of honesty that changed the fundamental chemistry of a room just by existing in it.
Tord didn’t move for a long moment. He just sat there on the floor, all traces of his usual smugness still completely absent. It had been replaced by something unreadable and intense. It wasn’t soft. Tord didn’t really do soft. But it was focused in a way that made the air feel thicker.
Like he wasn’t watching a breakdown but rather witnessing something that was real and honest for the first time in a very long time.
“You know…. That’s the closest thing to a confession I’ve ever heard come out of your mouth,” he said quietly. There was no teasing in it. No mockery. No sharp-edged amusement.
Just recognition.
Tom’s shoulders went rigid. “It wasn’t a fucking confession,” he snapped. But the protest came too fast, too defensive.
“Sure sounded like one to me,” Tord replied, now rising to his feet. He still didn’t cross the room, didn’t try to close the distance. “Sounded like you admitting that you do give a damn.”
He studied Tom’s face, taking in the flush spreading across his cheeks, the way his mouth had tightened into a thin line.
“You really think you’re subtle, but you leave your feelings scattered. Like breadcrumbs. You just pray nobody’s smart enough to follow the trail back to where it leads.”
Tom stiffened further, his whole body going taut like a wire stretched to its breaking point. His mouth opened and closed once, like he wanted to argue but couldn't find the words. His hands stayed clenched at his sides, knuckles white with tension.
He looked like he wanted to move, to turn away, to storm out entirely, but something was keeping him frozen in place.
Tord watched him with the patience of someone who had been waiting for exactly this moment.
“You know what’s funny about noise?” he asked conversationally. “It gets louder the harder you try to muffle it.”
He took a step forward, slow and purposeful. Not quite closing the gap but shrinking it. The pressure in the room seemed to rise within the movement.
“That little routine you do… Picking fights, pushing people away, building walls out of sarcasm, spite. It’s actually pretty impressive. Keeps most people at arm’s length.”
Another pause, another measured step.
“Doesn’t work on me, though.”
Tom let out a harsh breath through his nose, half warning, half desperate attempt to release pressure. “Yeah? Well. Maybe you should stop looking so fucking hard.”
But even as he said that, he didn’t move away. Didn’t step back or create distance. Like he didn’t even believe what he was saying.
Tord’s expression softened almost imperceptibly. “Maybe I would,” he murmured, voice dropping to something almost gentle, “if you didn’t keep leaving the light on.”
The words hung between them like a bridge neither had expected to build.
Tom’s shoulders dropped. Just a fraction. Like something heavy had been set down for just a moment. He didn’t speak. Couldn’t quite meet Tord’s eyes. Couldn’t quite figure out what to do with his hands or where to look.
Tord took that final step.
Close now. Too close. Close enough that Tom could see the flecks of silver in his gray eyes, could smell whatever cologne he was wearing mixed with cigars and something that was just fundamentally him.
The room felt even smaller instantly, like the walls had moved inward while they weren’t paying attention.
Tom didn’t move away.
But his eyes flickered once, quick and nervous, toward Tord’s chest, then up to his face, then away again. His breath hitched like he was about to say something, or shout something, or tell Tord to fuck off. But nothing came. Only tension. It was rising and hot and absolutely impossible to ignore.
Tord said nothing else. He just stood there, close enough to touch, watching the way Tom’s fingers flexed restlessly at his sides, how his throat worked when he swallowed, the barely visible tremor in his hands that spoke of nerves and adrenaline and something that might have been anticipation.
And then, without warning, without thought, Tom snapped.
It was fast and graceless and completely unplanned. His hand shot out, grabbed Tord by the front of his shirt in one rough motion, and yanked him forward hard enough that they both stumbled slightly. Their mouths collided with bruising force. Too much pressure, too much desperation, teeth clicking together in a way that would probably leave them both with split lips.
But Tord didn’t flinch or pull away or act surprised. He answered the kiss with equal intensity, his hands finding Tom’s waist and gripping tight enough to leave fingerprint bruises, pulling him closer like he needed the contact to stay grounded. His other hand found Tom's forearm, holding on with desperation that matched Tom’s own.
They couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t plan or strategize or worry about consequences. The kiss was wild and messy and full of months or maybe years of everything they’d never been able to put into words; frustration and longing and anger and something that might have been love if either of them had been brave enough to name it.
Tom pulled him closer by the fabric of his hoodies, fingers twisted in the fabric like he might shove Tord away the next second but couldn’t quite bring himself to let go. Not yet. Not when this was finally happening, finally real instead of just something that lived in the spaces between arguments and careful distance.
The kiss slowed eventually, not because either of them wanted it to end, but because they both needed air and their bodies had started to remember basic biological functions. Their mouths parted with a soft sound, leaving barely an inch of space between them, both breathing hard like they’d been running a marathon.
Then Tom stepped back quickly. As if he had been burned or stung or suddenly remembered that fire was supposed to be dangerous. His chest rose and fell rapidly, and he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth like it had betrayed him, like it could erase what had just happened between the two of them.
When he finally did speak, his voice was too fast and too high: “What the hell was that?”
He didn’t look at Tord directly; he couldn’t quite manage it. His eyes darted around the room like he was looking for an escape route or a reasonable explanation.
Tord stayed exactly where he was, close enough that Tom could still feel the heat radiating from his body. His expression remained unreadable, though his own breathing wasn’t entirely steady itself.
“You tell me,” he said, voice quiet and slightly husky from the kiss.
Tom couldn’t answer Tord right away. His breath hitched again, barely audible, as he looked away from the whole situation. He dragged one hand through his hair.
“You…,” He started. “You always do this.”
His accusation didn’t sound angry though. Just tired. Defeated.
“You show up, you poke at me until I react, and then this happens. And I don’t…” He trailed off, swallowing down whatever he had been about to say.
Tord didn’t interrupt or push. He just waited.
When Tord finally spoke, his voice was careful, measured: “I didn’t plan for that to happen.”
A pause, heavy with implication.
“But I didn’t exactly stop it either.”
Tom let out a breath that was almost a laugh. It was breathless and bitter around the edges, but softer than his usual sharp-edged humor. “Yeah, well. That makes two of us.”
Tord took another step forward. And this time, Tom didn’t retreat. “I’m not asking you to explain it,” he began quietly. “I’m not asking for empty promises. Or definitions. Or a roadmap.”
Tom looked at him again, really looked this time, taking in the unusual gentleness in Tord’s expression.
“I just… don’t want to pretend this didn’t happen,” Tord continued. “I don’t want to leave it behind like it was some kind of mistake we both need to forget about. Because it happened.”
Another silence stretched between the two of them, not uncomfortable exactly, but heavy with possibility and uncertainty.
Tom looked down at his hands, one opening and closing at his side like he wanted to reach out but couldn’t quite figure out what he’d be reaching for. “I don’t know what do with it,” he admitted, the words barely above a whisper. “With this. With you.”
The confession hung in the air like something fragile and precious.
Tord stood there watching Tom like he was something delicate and volatile all at once.
“You don’t have to,” he said finally, and his voice carried a gentleness that Tom wasn’t sure he’d ever heard before. “Figure it out. I mean.”
Each word was chosen carefully, delivered with precision that suggested he understood exactly how fragile this moment was.
“You don’t owe me anything,” Tord said. “Not an answer. Not a reason. Not even a plan for what comes next. Again, I just don’t want to pretend that it didn’t happen.”
Tom’s swallowed hard. He nodded. Maybe in agreement, maybe just because his body needed to move. But that gesture was small and uncertain.
“I didn’t mean to do that,” he muttered, still not being able to meet Tord’s eyes. “Kiss you.”
“I know.”
“It just happened,” he said, like he was trying to convince himself as much as Tord.
“Yeah,” Tord agreed simply. “It did.”
Another beat of silence passed, with Tom's voice then dropping to barely above a whisper: “I didn't hate it.”
The admission felt stupid the moment it left his mouth, too simple and too honest and too revealing all at once. But it was the only truth he could manage to get out.
He still couldn't look up. Couldn't meet Tord's eyes. Couldn't risk seeing whatever expression might be waiting for him there.
“I know,” Tord said again, and the words carried the same gentleness as before. “Me neither.”
Then, without ceremony or fanfare, he moved to the couch and sat down on its edge, resting his forearms on his knees and lowering his gaze to the floor between them. It wasn't an invitation exactly, but it wasn't a dismissal either. Just a presence, close enough if Tom wanted company, far enough away if he needed space.
Tom stood there for several more breaths, still and quiet, like he was weighing something precious and breakable in his chest and trying not to drop it. The vodka was still spreading slowly across the floor near his feet, but neither of them seemed to care about the mess anymore.
Then, moving like he was afraid the moment might shatter if he approached it too quickly, Tom crossed the short distance to the couch.
He sat down beside Tord, slow and careful, leaving just enough space between them that they weren't quite touching but could feel each other's warmth. The couch creaked softly under their combined weight, a small sound that seemed loud in the amber-lit quiet.
Neither of them said anything. There didn't seem to be words for whatever this was. This careful truce, this fragile understanding, this moment of honesty in a relationship built on provocation and defensive walls.
Tom hesitated for just a moment, then let himself lean slightly to the right. His head came to rest against Tord's shoulder with careful, tentative pressure, like he was testing whether this was allowed, whether it would be rejected or accepted or simply endured.
Tord didn't move right away. He just breathed, steady and even, letting the contact happen without making it into something bigger or smaller than it was. Then, after a moment that felt both eternal and far too brief, he tilted his head just enough to rest it against Tom's in return.
No smirk. No comment. No analysis or provocation or attempt to turn the moment into something else.
For the first time in longer than either of them wanted to calculate, neither felt the need to fill the silence with words or push the other away or pretend that this wasn't exactly what they'd both been wanting without admitting it.
They just stayed there, breathing in sync, letting the quiet hold them while the party's debris surrounded them like evidence of a world that suddenly felt very far away.
And in that stillness, something that had been wound tight for months or maybe years finally began to loosen, just a little, just enough to let them both breathe easier.
Just enough to let them stay.