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“Red Leader, darling,” Tom’s gentle voice whispered in his ear, sweetly fake and reeking of insubordination. “I think we’re going to have to kill this guy.”
Tord should’ve left him to die on the street. He hated nothing more than being teased.
He balled his metallic arm, feeling it creak from the sheer force of his grip. In front of him, the hostage let out a small yelp, clearly alarmed by the Red Leader’s sudden movement.
He breathed through his nose, looking over to his secretary with his good eye. The bastard stood attentive, arms behind his back with a neutral, almost bored expression. Tom wore his usual uniform, sporting a well-ironed black tie that sat neatly against his chest; his stubble was combed and pristine. Every single hair on his head was neatly placed, with not a single wrinkle present on his clothes.
To anyone else, Tom looked like the perfect picture of a secretary—the perfect picture of a loyal subordinate, one that didn’t just call his boss “darling”.
Tord uncurled his fist, exhaling smoothly as he caught Tom’s eye, glaring at him with all the world’s hatred. The blush on his face softened the glare he gave, regrettably.
“I’ll deal with you later,” he mouthed.
Tom didn’t respond, seemingly unfazed by his leader’s glare, only looking straight ahead, diligently awaiting his leader’s commands—the fucker.
His eye snapped back to the hostage, some commander from a pitiful country he’d conquered. Tord couldn’t even be bothered to remember which one. The guy looked like he was about to die on the spot, his gaze barely able to look the Red Leader head-on. Though he tried to hide it, Tord could tell he was shaking, his legs barely able to keep him upright. His expression showed that he hadn’t heard what Tom had said, or at least was pretending he hadn’t, perhaps to save his life.
Tord leaned back in his chair, the soft brown cushioning catching his weight as he propped his feet onto his desk, scattering the papers on top. He wished he could take a puff of a cigar.
He rubbed his temples. “Thomas,” his voice was short. The leader’s commanding presence filled the room, drowning everything else out. “Take him to the water cells; keep him there until he becomes cooperative.”
Without a word of acknowledgment, Tom strode toward the captive, his steps methodical and evenly paced. The sound of his steps echoed throughout the room; Tord could almost imagine how fearful the hostage was to be face-to-face with the Red Army’s right-hand man. Tord smirked as he heard the prisoner try to resist, forgetting his arms were bound. The man attempted one final act of resistance—a sudden jab to Tom’s shin—but the suited man remained unaffected, not even wincing at the blow.
Like clockwork, his second-in-command knocked him out cold, positioning himself to gracefully scoop the hostage up, only wasting a second to adjust his tie. His professionalism almost made Tord forget what he said. Almost.
Slinging the ex-commander over his shoulders, Tom prepared to leave the room. Tord watched as Tom’s broad figure began to get smaller. He almost scoffed at the neatly tucked dress shirt he wore, tight against his figure.
The sound of Tom’s footsteps gradually became quieter as the man approached the large metallic door separating Tord’s office and the outer hallway. With refined precision, he input the door’s code before fitting his eye into the retinal scanner. The door clicked open immediately, and Tom took a large stride, shifting on his heels to reposition the unconscious prisoner. Tord looked down at the mess of papers absentmindedly, expecting to hear the sound of the door closing.
He snapped his head up after a few moments of silence, the hairs on his neck raised.
The hallway light shone through his office; the dark figure of his secretary stared back at him, seemingly illuminated. Tord raised his good eyebrow as he looked at the scene before him, watching as Tom took a step back.
A comment danced on the tip of his tongue, confusion replacing the unease he previously felt. Before he could voice whatever he felt, though, a neon green message appeared on Tom’s visor, clear as day:
:p
The door closed immediately after, shadowing the office in deep blues, the only light coming from a singular ceiling lightbulb. Tord counted it as a blessing, though. It meant that no one could see the Red Leader’s mouth ajar, sitting in his office chair.
—- ☆
It had become something of a little experiment, something that seemed to greatly amuse his secretary.
In the coming days, it had started happening more frequently: a crude comment here, a lingering touch there, some acts of insubordination.
Tord couldn’t stand it.
It had been years since they reconciled—a couple of years after Tord began his quest for world domination—something about an eye for Thomas’s eyes. The days of their youth spent trading blows, split lips, and blackened eyes had long passed, now replaced with a quiet, mutual respect. Mellowed out—that was the word. Tom and Tord had mellowed out as they went from their teens to their twenties to now their late thirties.
This coming of age, though, couldn’t help Tom’s antics. Or perhaps it only increased his desire to act childish, to act like Tord did when he was living under one roof with Edd and Matt—goading a reaction out of Tom through whatever means necessary. Getting him worked up until he had his undivided attention, no matter how negative it was. Except this time the goading wasn’t insults or harsh criticisms that led to shattered bones; no, they were long past those days. Instead it was, for lack of a better word, relentless teasing on Tom’s end.
Tord was careful to never react, keeping his face still despite the fluster coloring his cheek. He had a reputation as Red Leader, after all. But it was, well, extremely fucking hard to seem unaffected, especially when it happened during war meetings.
“My Leader, I don’t think this idea is wise,” Pau’s voice sounded across the table, his tone almost a plea. “Our troops are still scattered. We need time to regroup.”
Voices of opposition rang throughout the room, generals of all kinds expressing their thoughts. Tord could feel a headache coming, the room's temperature rising as heated exchanges continued. Beside him, Tom remained still, looking onto the scene with a face only describable as bored.
Tord would never admit it, but he always liked the calming presence Tom emitted. It took someone special to make him lose his cool.
Silently, Tord waited for Tom’s input. Despite his title as Red Leader’s Secretary, Tom held an extremely high-ranking position within the Red Army, not only for his official position but also as a trusted advisor. Aside from Pau and Pat, his opinion was one of the few that Tord took with any consideration. He raised an eyebrow, a silent question exchanged between them: What do you think?
Tom caught his eye, the silver of his piercings reflecting under the light. He almost seemed to glow under the dim lights of the room. Listen to Pau, he replied. Tord only gave a subtle nod in return.
The Red Leader raised his hand, the sounds of squabbling immediately silencing. Tord looked around the room, watching as the soldiers stood at full attention, awaiting his verdict with full devotion. Maybe if he were younger, more desperate for adoration, he would’ve felt smug at the feeling of power he commanded—to be able to silence a room with only the flick of his hand, to wield enough strength to take over nations. Now, though? It only made him feel hollow.
He almost missed the simplicity of his twenties.
“We’ll use the rest of this week to recoup our troops.” He spoke with authority, his tone leaving no room for objection. Immediately, the room filled with agreement, an unending sound of cacophony piercing his good ear. He wished they would just kiss his ass; it would be better than the overly excited smiles and cheerful faces, like they hadn’t just been at each other’s throats.
“If that’s all, then,” a voice to his right spoke, alarming him—Tom’s voice, he recognized—“then we’ll be on our way.” Tord only had a moment to process what he said before he felt himself being lifted into the air, resting on two firm arms.
He felt the warmth of Tom’s chest pressed against his side, a small cocoon of heat emitted throughout his body, warming his side and face. Tord felt the secure grip Tom had on him—reassurance that he wouldn’t drop him. Without thinking, Tord wrapped his hands behind Tom’s neck before realizing the scene it painted.
The Red Leader, supreme leader of nations, was being bridal-carried. The realization only colored his cheeks more.
The room remained silent, his generals silently watching the scene before them. Some avoided the Red Leader’s gaze, seemingly more flustered than he was. Tord couldn’t wait to see them tomorrow, to look them in the eyes as he barked commands after they saw their dear leader being manhandled by his secretary.
Tom seemed to pay no attention to anyone else, quickly leaving the secured meeting room with precise steps. He rolled his shoulder as he waited for the door to open, clearing his throat before quietly leaving. The pair listened as the door closed behind them, a moment’s silence shared before Tord interrupted.
“Mind explaining what that was, Thomas?”
His second-in-command gave no reply, his head pointed away from his leader. If he didn’t know better, he would describe Tom’s expression as shy. But Tom didn’t do shy, and neither did Tord. He moved his hand to pinch Tom’s face, grabbing on the other man’s piercings until they were nearly eye-level. He wanted to rip out those piercings. For a moment, it was like they were back in their twenties, sharing an argument over something trivial.
But they weren’t twenty, and they hadn’t been for a very, very long time.
Tom’s reply was smooth, almost clinical: “I’m not sure what you’re talking about, sir.”
Tord could only roll his eye, fighting to keep the indignation from his voice. “Don’t act coy. Acts of insubordination can lead to harsh punishments, even death. What are you playing at?”
That made Tom stop. Yet he continued holding Tord like he was something precious, his grip unwavering. “If you really wanted me dead, then you wouldn’t have made my visor,” he spoke, his voice betraying nothing. “Again, I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
He straightened before looking Tord in the eye, a mischievous glint on his visor.
“Perhaps you’re a little cranky from lack of sleep?” he suggested.
Tord could only narrow his eye, assessing the statement. In the past, he would’ve thrown a punch at Tom for such a comment, but they wouldn’t be in this situation—with Tord being carried by Tom in a well-furnished hallway like they were a lovesick couple on a honeymoon—if they were in the past. “I beg your pardon?” he settled on.
The reply was immediate. “Then beg, sir.”
Tord could only scoff.
—- ☆
Lying on his bed after a long day was one of the few things Tord looked forward to. It came with almost being middle-aged, he supposed. The pain of his side seemed to lessen, the headache ringing through his skull softening, his tight muscles loosened, cushioned by the soft mattress and pillows. He lazily craned his head upward as the mattress dipped below him, rolling him towards the edge of the bed, the weight of another accompanying his side.
“Tord,” a gentle sound accompanied by a warm body nudged him, a delicate hand on his back. Tom shuffled closer, using the little space Tord had given him to help remove his metallic arm. His voice was a soft murmur as he spoke, like the sound of windchimes riding the wind. “It’s time for your medicine.”
Slowly, as though Tord was someone deserving of being treated with such softness, Tom helped him sit upright before handing him his prescription and a glass of water. He watched patiently as his leader downed the medication and came to collect the empty glass, placing it on the nightstand. Tom rose from the bed, careful not to disturb Tord. Methodically, he began to tuck in his superior, even fluffing the pillow like the prick he was. “Don’t lie on your face,” he commented, sweeping a part of Tord’s hair that had fallen. “It’ll give you an infection.”
In all the years Tord had known Tom, he had never seen him express concern. He even believed at one point that it was impossible for him to be worried. “What’s with the sudden doting?” His voice was sharper than he expected. “I know your earlier stunt was because you knew I was getting a migraine. Don’t tell me that you’re going soft on me now, Tom.”
The room was dark, the only light coming from Tom’s visor, though the digital eyes displayed no emotion. Tom had long since trained his expressions to be impassive, even before Tord had built his visor; only the quirk of Tom’s lip betrayed his frustration. It was surprising. “Is it so hard to believe I care about you?” His words were laced with venom, anger building as he spoke, “that I’m not trying to get some rise out of you?”
Tord gave a shallow laugh, watching as Tom stiffened, his shoulders raised in surprise, “If you were, then you’d be 10 years too late. We both don’t have time for childish fist fights.”
He got no reply. In the silence and darkness of the room, Tord could close his eye and almost pretend that Tom had left him hours ago. Pretend that he wasn’t in a bed too big for him with a side that lay cold throughout the night. In this moment, Tord could pretend a million things, none ever becoming real. Only Tom’s quick exhale broke the illusion, a smudge on a perfect painting.
“You’re hesitating, kjære,” Tord said to no one.
He heard a sharp inhale, waiting for Tom’s response, a continuation of their argument. They were destined to argue with each other, after all, forever and always. Instead, he heard something tired, worn down over the years. “Nothing, just go to sleep.”
With that, the sounds of footsteps sounded through the room, followed only by the opening and closing of a door. Tord’s eye dipped closed then, feeling the medicine working through his veins, the whisper of a thank you on his lips remaining unspoken, like everything else between them.
—- ☆
It was going to be a long day; that was something Tord knew for a fact. He rolled a freshly washed shirt between his hands, careful not to crumple the fabric, inspecting it with a glint in his eyes. Pink. The shirt he was holding was pink, light pink both inside and out. He frowned, frustration jolting through his body. He was going to kill the fool responsible for the army’s laundry— the Red Army had no use for idiots unaware that reds and whites needed to be separated.
“Tom,” he called, his secretary coming to him in an instant, “tell me, who was in charge of this week’s laundry?”
His second-in-command pursed his lip, considering Tord’s question. His response was flat. “That would be me, sir.”
Tom raised an eyebrow, his anger suddenly becoming a mixture of wariness and confusion. He almost repeated his question, sure that somehow Tom had misunderstood what he was saying, but stopped himself. Tord knew Tom meant everything he said.
“Then what is this?” He gestured, showing off the front and the back.
His assistant barely glanced over at his leader. “A cotton shirt,” he commented, like it was Tord’s first day on Earth. “A nicely colored pink one too, if you wanted my opinion.”
Tord balled up the fabric, ready to hurl it at Tom, pettiness and immaturity be damned. “I didn’t hire you to give opinions. Answer my question: why is my shirt pink?”
“I believe when red and white mix together, the result is pink, though, at your age, you should know that already.” That sent Tord over the edge. He lunged at Tom, pushing him against the wall, meeting him in the eyes with a withering glare. Their foreheads were barely an inch apart, a silver eye meeting green, neon ones. Tord hesitated, seeing utter amusement in his expression.
Always a dick, his Tom was. They drove each other crazy to no end.
“Helvete, Thomas! I’m not joking around. I know maids smart enough not to do this shit!” He lifted Tom off the ground, watching as the absolute bastard smirked. The expression didn’t match the scene; if anything, Tom looked thrilled at the result. Smiling like it was a game. “Why would I expect any different from my secretary?”
“I didn’t realize maid was my job title,” Tom joked, his tone completely unserious. Tord wanted to shake him around to test if he would hear rocks in his head. He settled for digging his nails into Tom’s outfit, sparing no thought about keeping it tidy. If it were anyone else, he would’ve just put a bullet through their head and call it a day, but Tom always made Tord inefficient, slowed by emotions.
“You don’t have to be a maid to understand basic adult skills,” Tord retorted, the muscles in his hand flexing as his grip strengthened. Tord couldn’t deny it anymore; Tom had to be some divine punishment, sent to punish him for whatever transgression he did. Maybe running over all the neighbors’ trash cans with his car when he was a teenager.
”Nanny then,” Tom suggested, “for having to deal with a petulant child on top of everything else I have to do. I don’t see why you’re getting so emotional about this. It's not like wearing a pink shirt will emasculate you.” God, the sound of his voice never disgusted Tord more.
“You and I both know that’s not the point,” Tord sneered.
There had been many times in Tord’s life when he had heard the word emotionless thrown in Tom’s direction. Whether it was his empty eyes, devoid of pupils, or his sunken appearance, further exacerbated by his dark clothing and many piercings, maybe it was all of it or nothing at all. There was always something to criticize about anyone, after all. Tord never gave any consideration to what he heard: the late nights spent around Tom, Matt, and Edd huddled on a couch too small, yelling obscenities at each other, made him know better. He was only proven more right by Tom’s next words: all the critics in the world would put their shoes in their mouths hearing what he said.
”Yeah, duh.”
Before Tord could react, he heard quick footsteps followed by a loud screech, the intruder clearly stopping as they processed the scene unfolding. “My leader,” Pat’s urgent voice rang through the hallway. He straightened as he looked at his leader. The man had enough sense to never question what happened between his leader and second.
“The meeting with the ambassador is happening. We need you at the conference room.”
Being a nation’s leader had many pros: he was worshipped and adored by thousands, he didn’t have to worry about any common needs, and he got to wear a very stylish outfit every day. If you told him that a con would be having to play HR with puny countries attempting to make peace, he would’ve laughed in your face. But alas, that was where he was, sitting across an obnoxiously long wooden table with an enemy leader and wishing he was anywhere else.
Their conversation was civil, as civil as two men backed by multiple bodyguards could be. They traded pleasantries, weather-talk, and everything in between. Tord wished they would exchange gunfire instead; he was sure he would win anyway. Behind him stood his trusted advisors: Pat, Pau, and Tom, accompanied by nameless soldiers.
“As I was saying, Red Leader, we could reach a compromise, one that guarantees peace,” the ambassador said, his voice jovial. Tord could almost see flowers blooming from his seat— the man was so sunny.
The Red Leader twirled a pen between his fingers, catching it on his pinkie. “That’s the thing though,” he replied smoothly, “I don’t really want a compromise. My army has nothing to gain from your treaty.”
He leaned back in his chair, gripping the pen before slamming it down on the table, pinning it on the country the ambassador was from. He looked the ambassador in the eye, watching a bead of sweat appear on his forehead. Tord’s eye gleamed in excitement.
“In fact, this feels like a last-ditch effort at keeping power before I wipe your pitiful country off the map.”
The ambassador’s mustache twitched, his facade breaking. Gently, he rose from his chair, his hands placed gently on the table, supporting his weight. Tord watched as the man adjusted his tie and waved to his soldiers, signaling they were leaving.
“I’m sorry that we couldn’t reach a compromise. It's a true shame.” They began shuffling out of the room, but Tord heard the man’s final comment before he left the building.
“By the way, nice shirt, Red Leader.”
He could feel all the eyes of his subordinates looking at him, noting their leader’s light pink shirt beneath his blue coat. He felt one man’s green eyes looking at him in particular.
—- ☆
The buzz of alcohol was something usually left to Tom, the Brit being the only alcoholic in their house back in the day. Tord preferred the simplicity of a cigar, the roasted earthy filling his mouth, but he liked to indulge in other destructive practices from time to time. He walked into the private bar, addressing soldiers within his army with a curt nod. They paid him no mind, either too wrapped up with their own conversations or too fearful to exchange anything but polite greetings.
His eye caught on a lone figure in the corner, nursing a glass of a brown colored liquid. From the looks of it, it wasn’t the man’s first glass. Tord slid into the seat across from him, stealing the drink.
“Don’t tell me you’re sulking after being reprimanded, Tom,” he said, taking a swig and feeling the poison move down his throat. He wiped his lip with the back of his hand, noting the taste.
The Norsk only got a grumble in response, his companion clearly too tired to deal with him. Beneath the table, Tord stepped on his foot, pressing his heel on his secretary’s toes. He revelled in the kick he got in response. The sting rippling through his leg only made him more excited.
Every exchange between him and Tom was something special. Sometimes it was all he had to look forward to. It kept him sane throughout his entire life, when he felt impulsive and yearned to do something drastic. He would replay their conversations, late at night, thinking of more ways to get the other man’s attention. It kept him awake more often than he would like to admit.
“I’m not sulking,” Tom said, snapping Tord out of his thoughts.
The Red Leader grinned, exposing a sharp canine, watching as Tom motioned for his glass back, moving just in time to block his hand, swatting it away. Tord rolled his heel, wondering if he should escalate their conversation. There was nothing wrong with returning Tom’s teasing, right?
“What is it then? What’s gotten you so sulky like a husband being forced to sleep on the couch?” The English phrase rolled off his tongue— long ago, Tom had taught him the phrase, along with many other English sayings and idioms. “It’ll help you learn the language better, if you know how to joke in it,” Tom had told him, smiling with his baby teeth.
Tord could only see the wisdom now, as he was teasing the other man, both of them old and graying.
“You.” The response was short, like it explained everything.
Tom always did that, talking in rhyme and cryptic messages. Tord thought back to their exchange yesterday, the sudden change in the attitude from when they were in his room to their argument in the hallway. He was almost caring: giving Tord his medicine and chastising him to not do anything bad to himself. The Tom that was face to face with him in the hallway was more normal, meeting him blow for blow. But that was always how the Brit acted, ever since he joined the Red Army.
He wondered what type of Tom stood across from him now in the bar.
“Me?” He asked, reiterating what Tom said. He took another swing of the man’s drink, nearly emptying it. He could feel the effects immediately, despite not being a lightweight.
“You make me need to drink.”
Tord could only laugh, loud enough that the entire room heard them. It was clear who stood before him now. It didn’t even warrant questioning. They were destined to keep fighting until the end of time. “Of course, you have to be drunk to tolerate me.”
Tom shook his head. “No, no. I haven’t needed to be drunk in a long time.”
Tord hated the way his heart reacted to that. The way it fluttered like he was a high schooler with a crush. His mouth felt dry.
“Then what is it?” He questioned, careful to keep the sound of hope from seeping in. In his moment of weakness, Tom reached over the table, swiping the glass back from Tord’s loose grip. He downed the entire thing.
“I wouldn’t have agreed to work with you if you hadn’t changed, Tord.” He answered, signaling the bartender for another refill. Tord could only stew on what he meant, dissecting the words in his head like the answer was discoverable.
It never came to him.
He sighed in defeat, following Tom’s lead and requesting his own drink.
Maybe the buzz of alcohol would give him the answer.
Many hours later, the floor was becoming unrecognizable. Tord had enough sense to know his limit, having stopped drinking long ago. Tom still had a love for alcohol, though, with Tord having to cut his companion off before he could do any more damage to his liver. He stretched, feeling the tense muscles relax as they uncoiled.
He stood up, watching spots cloud his vision from the sudden movement. Quickly, he moved to where Tom sat, preparing to help the man stand— a hovering hand at his side.
“Go to bed. It's a bad look for the second to be so intoxicated,” Tord scolded.
Tom looked like he didn’t even know his own name. “Huh?”
“I said,” he breathed, his tone becoming softer. Tom always spoke gently to him when he was enthralled in blueprints and papers late at night, urging him to go to bed sweetly. It always worked on Tord. “Go to bed. You’re not young enough to drink like this. And I’m not willing to put up with you as I used to.”
“Huh?” Tom asked again.
He breathed, the last embers of frustration escaping him. He thought back to all the times Tom had taken care of him, despite never asking him to. Tord was infinitely more stubborn, yet Tom never gave up. “I’ll say it for the final time. Go to bed. I don’t like seeing you like this. It makes me… worried.”
“Oh, okay.” Tom rose from his seat with grace, weaving through the crowd of people like he owned the place. He looked back, a question on his visor when he saw Tord wasn’t behind him.
Tord begrudgingly trailed behind, hiding the color on his cheek.
—- ☆
Tom’s room was more decorated than Tord’s, sporting some memorabilia that Tord knew was sentimental. Back in the day, Tom’s room would’ve been filled with empty liquor bottles, cheap and expensive brands leaking onto the carpet and making the place smell rancid. But the floor was bare, like the walls, devoid of any posters of cool metal bands. Only white walls stared back at him.
Clearly Tom hadn’t felt the need to paint it blue as he did back in Edd’s house.
It was like the room was unoccupied, with no one there. Tord’s eye caught on something in the distance, his eye widening as he got closer, recognition on his face. He hovered over Susan, the bass guitar shining in its case, finely tuned and well cared for. He touched the cold glass with his hand, wondering if Tom still played her, if he even had the time to between all his duties.
He looked back at his second-in-command, catching him as he slipped on his sleep shirt, the last sliver of brown skin disappearing under an old gray tee. The faded graphic betrayed its age, worn out from years of wear and wash. Tord recognized it as Tom’s favorite shirt, the softest one he owned.
“Why did you make my visor?” The question shocked him out of his trance. Tord whipped his back to look at Susan, unable to look Tom in the eyes, afraid he’d been caught staring. If Tom noticed, he didn’t say anything.
Because losing the only person who could match me would make my life pointless. Because we used to be close, before we went our separate ways, and I thought this was something we could still do for each other. Because I don’t hate you entirely and I never did.
“I didn’t like the way you looked,” he settled on.
Tom sighed, the low sound dragging throughout the room until he had exhausted his lungs of all its air. Tord risked a glance back, spotting his work pants on the floor, looking up to see the other man sitting on the edge of his bed, his hands covering his face. He looked much smaller now, defeated almost.
Tord, as a young boy, had never felt unsure about himself, leading his schoolmates with absolute confidence and authority. Tord, as a young man, had never felt unsure about himself, taking a risk to move to the big city to chase new heights. Tord, as an old man, felt the most unsure he had in his entire life. He shifted on his heels, moving his weight from side to side to keep the blood from remaining in his legs, before deciding to sit down too.
The pair sat as far from one another as possible, perfectly parallel. Their breathing synchronized in the minutes that passed, neither speaking. Perhaps that was nothing that could be said between them— the moment long since passed. It was awkward. Tord should go.
A question burned in his mind, though, one he still hadn’t found the answer to. He never liked leaving anything unanswered.
“What did you mean back then, when you said I had changed?” He mumbled.
Tom gave him a sad look— like he was missing something so obvious. His return carried the same emotion. “When have you ever done something for anyone but yourself?”
No need to be an asshole. Tord was capable of empathy, no matter how little he acted on it. “Today, I suppose. If sparing your life means anything.”
“And why did you do that?” Tom prodded him further. Tord liked the easy questions he was being given; the tense atmosphere felt like it was loosening. He smiled.
“Because finding a secretary on par with you would be tiring,” he sighed. “And there’s nothing I hate more than idiots who are bad at their job and make it my problem.”
Tom looked straight at him. His eyes cut straight through Tord’s soul. He could tell that Tom wasn’t playing around anymore; maybe he never was.
“You went through all the effort to make my visor so you could find a good secretary?” A wobble in his voice.
Why was Tom so hung up on the visor? Tord bristled, “I wasn’t planning to make you a secretary.”
“Then why? I know it took you months to make it,” he spat. “You probably could’ve finished conquering the world if you hadn’t wasted months on it.”
Tord got in his face. His good eye narrowed. “Because seeing my friend lying dead on the street from eye cancer wouldn’t be the good alternative!”
Tord expected a sharp comeback, perhaps a scoff at the assumption that they were friends. That was the last thing Tom had said to him, after all, before shooting the harpoon.
“I’m not your friend!”
Tord played the sentence over and over in his head in the years following. It haunted him. A grim reminder that they were too fucked up to be anything besides enemies; they could only be strangers, strangers who knew each other more intimately than lovers ever could.
The silver of Tom’s piercings— the exact color of Tord’s eyes. The black nail polish seen on every picture of Tord, painstakingly applied by Tom when they were teenagers because Tord had a horrible habit of biting his nails and nothing else had worked. The hoodies they used to wear. The excuses they had to tell everyone— that they had gotten a good buy one, get one deal when really they wanted to match with each other.
Everything always came back to the other. And yet they weren’t even friends.
The flower that was their relationship died in winter, unable to sustain itself after years of abuse. Its roots rotted with maggots swarming to devour every inch. But they wouldn’t find much. For years it had only been watered by the spit exchanged between them as they fought. It would have more luck finding nutrients in the desert’s soil than anywhere near Tom and Tord. There was never any sunshine— there never would be. Nothing was supporting it: to grow and blossom, and eventually it got the damned hint and stopped trying. It would never see another spring.
Maybe it was never a flower, just a persistent weed that didn’t know when to die.
That would’ve been a fitting end to Tord and Tom’s relationship. When Tom fired it felt like a Viking send-off, an open funeral pyre laying what they had to rest. No one would cry, though. No one would mourn either. Maybe they could’ve fixed what they once had, if Tord was vulnerable back then. But now? Now it was many, many years too late.
I loved you, you know. He would say.
So what? Would be Tom’s response.
Tord expected all of that, but he got none of it. Instead, he felt Tom’s hand grabbing the front of his shirt, forceful in a way that screamed desperation and longing. Tord barely had any time to react, Tom using the opening he had to slot their mouths together, softly pressing their lips together.
Tom was kissing him.
He felt himself being pushed back, his back hitting the bed. God, was Thomas smiling as he kissed him? He smiled back. A sudden weight climbed on top of him, his legs straddled beneath firm muscle. He took the chance to deepen the kiss, afraid that he would never have another chance, not daring to open his eye and see the sight before him. Tom gave him a pleasant hum in return, only urging Tord to continue, his hands moving to hold his lover’s face. They stayed like that for a long time, exploring the chance they never got before he felt the pressure on his lips retreating.
“You could’ve just started with that,” Tom grumbled, parting for oxygen. The look on his face made it clear he didn’t want to, but biology stood in his way. Tord felt his entire body grow weak. He was sure the kiss made him more drunk than any liquor. His entire body was red.
Tom pulled him in, but Tord stopped him.
“Are you sure? Despite everything?” A shyness etched into his voice, exposing all the feelings he laid beneath. He didn’t care that Tom would see him for everything he was anymore.
“Because of everything,” Tom corrected, pulling him in again.
-fin. ☆