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Tom lay on the couch, resting his foot on one armrest, and the back of his head on the other. It was incredibly uncomfortable, the wooden structure beneath the thin cushion digging into the base of his skull. He couldn’t be bothered to move, though, or even to grab one of the pillows that had fallen from behind his head and now clustered extra uncomfortably underneath his shoulders. His second foot was hanging off the couch, planted steadily in the old carpet.
He had Susan splayed across his body, the neck of the bass pressed against his shoulder and the main part laid on his hip. He was thumbing broken and bored notes, staring at the old ceiling fan that swung haphazardly with its own momentum. He vividly remembered Edd asking Tord to fix it so it didn't fall and decapitate one of them. Tord argued he’d get around to it eventually.. A week ago. And here it was, still broken and threatening to slice Tom’s head off.
He rationalized that death-by-fan would be better than the hell he was suffering through currently. He was home alone… basically. Edd and Matt were out doing their own things. He briefly listened to what they explained, but had almost instantly completely forgotten. Tord was holed up in his room with whatever project he’d been working on since last week. The same one Tom assumed stopped him from fixing the death-fan.
Not that he was complaining, fixing the fan meant Tord would force him to help. And that meant Tom would be forced to endure his stupid engineer talk. And then it would lead to Tom shaking whatever stepstool Tord was on so he could reach the fan’s base, which would make Tord shoot him some colorful words. Most in Norwegian, so Tom didn't understand EXACTLY what he was saying, but he got the message. Then Tom would throw back his own colorful words, Tord would throw a tool at him or something, and then they’d fight.
He found himself smiling at the imaginary scenario despite himself. He rationalized it was because of how incredibly bored he was, that anything, even an argument with Tord would be better than sitting here doing nothing. His flask was laid on the coffee table, long since empty. Tom was too bored and uncomfortable to get up and fill it, because it just meant he’d be right back to this uncomfortable spot. He just wished he could watch TV, but someone had lost the remote three days ago. And despite Matt’s protests, everyone figured he had done it and forgot.
He closed his eyes as he absentmindedly strummed his bass, he could almost hear the stupid shows they’d watch because they were the only channels they could responsibly afford. He could hear the annoying grating of that old Norwegian comedy Tord would always put on whenever he won the fight over the remote. The rest of them had to begrudgingly tolerate it. Tom was convinced Tord only watched it because he knew everyone would rather watch something else.
That show was one of the reasons (beyond the obvious tone of voice) that he could understand when Tord was cursing him out. He’d picked up a few words from it, and was slowly figuring out the english translations. Not through any formal source, but through his own context clues. He could almost hear the reused laugh track that played over whenever the main characters would argue. He could almost hear the arguing and the cursing before one of them did something over the top to end the argument. He remembered in one episode, one of the main characters had dropped a piano on the other after pulling a conveniently placed rope. Tord had laughed harder than Tom had ever really heard. He was laughing so hard Tom had to fight laughing with him. He had buried his growing smile into the pillow he was pressed against so he could keep his pride.
…Now that he thought about it, he really could hear Norwegian. Particularly the familiar-ish words that littered the old show. He opened an eye just in time to see Tord enter from the hallway, cradling his hand and cursing quietly under his breath as he stormed into the kitchen. Tom scoffed, this was the fifth time of the night Tord had cut himself on whatever he was working on. He could see Tord run the sink and dunk his hand under it. The living room and the kitchen were basically the same room, only separated by a sad little half wall that had definitely seen better days. The cabinet the TV rested on was pushed against it, a missing poster for the remote was taped to the old screen.
Tord was searching around the vicinity of the sink, looking for the medkit he had been using the whole time. He kept accidentally leaving it in a different spot when he was done. Once, Tom had seen him put it in the cupboard that they kept cups in. Tom could see the bright red was now, on top of the fridge, next to the cereal boxes. He could only imagine the cereal box Tord had eaten from the last time he emerged from his room was under the sink.
“On top of the fridge.” Tom called out lazily. Tord’s head poked up from underneath the halfwall, then turned and made eye contact with the red case. He narrowed his eyes at Tom, unhappy he had needed his help. Tom smiled at him smugly.
“Get your filthy shoes off of the couch, Tomas.” He bit back, pointing with his (currently) unwounded hand. Tom rolled his eyes. He knew Tord had enough english experience to pronounce his name properly, he just didn’t. Because he thought it was funny. Tord broke away from the sink for a moment to snatch it, and rushed back. Tom set Susan aside, leaning her against the arm of the couch his head had previously been on. He sat up, watching Tord with an eyebrow raised.
He heard another swear and snickered. Tord slammed the first aid shut and begrudgingly, and almost comedically, slowly turned to look at Tom, just to be met with his best shit-eating grin he could muster. His face twisted in annoyance, so Tom knew he had done well.
“Where is the second first aid?” Tord asked like it was painful to ask. Tom had strolled around the half-wall, sitting against it at the doorway to the kitchen. He was wearing a gray tanktop, and some corny camo sweatpants. His shoulders were broad and built, and his torso tapered into some upside-down triangle from his shoulders to his hips. Tom still had no idea how the scrawny teenager from high school had managed, but he really didn't want to think about it.
“The bathroom.”
“Dont be a smartass, Tomas. That one was used up when I was making the new coffee machine.” He gestured at the counter across from Tom, at the very over-the-top coffee machine. It had a screen on it, and so many settings it made Tom’s head spin. Edd had merely asked Tord to fix it, and he had given back a completely different, personally renovated, technological marvel. Edd was not impressed, but reluctantly plugged it in and had been using it ever since.
“Edd had not gotten a new one in there since.” Tord finished. Tom tapped his chin performatively. He knew what Tord was asking for. He was asking for his personal one he used whenever he cut his finger open playing Susan. And the one Matt had bought for him after learning he had cut himself… years ago. He appreciated it anyway, though. And thinking about the gesture always warmed his heart.
Was he really going to let Tord, of all people, use such a sentimental thing? Yeah, he was, but he could at least pretend he wasn’t. Tord was glaring at him through narrowed eyes, knowing exactly what he was doing.
“I asked you not to be a smartass.”
“I’m not being a smartass, I'm trying to think where we could possibly have another first aid kit…”
“Tomas. You better get it or I'm tearing up your room for it.”
“I don't know what you’re talking about.”
Tord didn't respond, just sharpening his glare and tightening his jaw. Before Tom could get up and go grab it, Tord had already crossed the room and was headed for the hallway. Tom yelped in surprise and grabbed him by the back of his tanktop. Tord was taller and bigger, being in the military or whatever he did. But it didn't mean Tom couldn't stop him. He yanked him back, fully aware Tord would ACTUALLY tear up his room.
“TOMAS!” Tord shouted. “You’re going to tear my shirt you animal!” He half-turned to look at him, his feet still pointing down the hallway.
“It’s just a shitty tanktop! Go back to the kitchen, you drama queen, I’ve got it.”
“You had your chance to get it! Now I will get it.” Tord said with a mischievous grin, his canines glinted in the scarce light that poured into the dark hallway from the living room. He tried to writhe out of Tom’s grasp as Tom tried to kick the back of his knees to make him fall. Tord fell to one knee, grunting, and turned to yank Tom by the hair to his level.
“In your dreams!- OW, asshole!” He barked, trying to yank Tord’s hand out of his iron grip on his hair. He was stuck in some awkward crouch, and before he could think, Tord had swept his feet out from under him and pushed him onto his back against the old hardwood floor of the hallway.
“There, I win.” Tord said with pride. Tom glared at him, his hand still in his hair. They sat in silence for a moment, and Tom thought it was a moment too long, suddenly acutely aware of their position. Tord was straddling his hips to keep him down, and the hand that wasn't in his hair was planted beside his head. Tom was panting, trying to pretend it was from the fight, and not the sudden heat that enveloped his body. Tord raised an eyebrow at him, his other hand moving to his chin. Tom felt his blood run cold with anticipation as Tord gripped his chin, his thumb slowly gliding over his lips. Tord leaned closer.
“I am so sorry Tord!” He said, in a stupid, overdramaticized English accent. He was puppeteering Tom’s jaw and mouth, pretending he was speaking. Tord was barely containing his laughter, his silver eyes sparkling with mischief. He knew exactly what Tom was expecting. That asshole. “I’m sorry for wasting precious time! I will go get that first aid now like a good boy! And also can I suck your-”
He was cut off by Tom shouting to interrupt him, "I do NOT sound like that.” He slapped his hand away as he spoke, and Tord winced heavily, but he was still laughing like a maniac. Tord was cradling his hand to his chest, blood dripping down his.. toned.. arm. Tom looked down at his hand, suddenly hit with the nauseating scent of blood. His palm was covered in blood. His eyes went wide, and he snapped his hand forward to look at Tord’s hand, who was still giggling at his horrible impression of Tom.
Tom felt all the previous heat turn into a pit in his stomach as he looked at the brutal gash on the back of Tord’s hand.
“Holy fuck, Tord!”
“Yes, Tomas I know. That’s why I need first aid.” He rolled his eyes in exasperation.
“Fuck the first aid, this needs stitches you idiot!”
“No it doesn’t. Trust me I know. This happened with the coffee machine.”
Tom shot him a concerned glare, and started shoving him onto his feet and toward their shared bathroom. “Go wait in there you bloody moron, I’ll grab the first aid.” He demanded as Tord rolled his eyes and began walking way too calmly toward the door. He opened it and flicked the light on as Tom ducked into his room. He practically dived under his bed to retrieve the case, feeling around desperately as he searched for the familiar cool plastic shell.
He practically groaned with relief when he found it, tucking it under his arm as he sped to the bathroom. Tord was sitting on top of the toilet lid, his hand bundled up in a blue towel. Tom’s towel. Tom glared at him. Out of all four color coded towels on the towel rack, of course she had chosen Tom’s. Tord fluttered his eyelashes innocently. In the light, Tom could see his face was pale. It made his stomach twist. He cursed under his breath as he set the case on the counter and snapped it open.
“Let me see your hand, dickhead.” he ushered for him to give it over. Tord did, putting on a whole show about it.
“Oooh, princess treatment.” He cooed. Tom, who had previously taken his hand gently, looked at him and squeezed all of Tord’s fingers together. Tord yelped out of pain, his other hand shooting up to slap the back of Tom’s head.
“Tomas!” He hissed, like he was disciplining a dog.
Tomas curled his lip in disdain at his tone, tempted to do it again. “Stop being an ass, let me help you.”
“I could do it on my own, Einstein.”
“My medkit, my rules. Suck it up princess or go get your own from the corner store.” Tom retorted. Tord scoffed and shut up, turning away in annoyance. Tom quickly got to work, letting his mind wander.
His medkit, his rules. The more he thought about it, the more he remembered the origin of it. Matt’s concern, nearly pushed to tears with fear for him. Tom had to hug and reassure him all day just so he’d calm down. His mind wandered further, back when he still lived with his parents. When the burn from the razor was fresh. When he had to use a medkit like this, for a cut… like this. The thought, and the emotions behind the idea nearly made him puke. Had Tord done this to himself on purpose? He knew he was probably being irrational, but the anxiety that clawed in his chest didn't help him think logically.
He was nearly sucked into it, when he was snapped out of it. Literally. Tord was snapping his fingers in his face. He looked up, and nearly puked again when he saw how concerned Tord’s face was. The expression looked so unnatural on him. He looked too caring. He broke into a toothy, and uncertain grin.
“You alright over there? Looks like you got your head in the clouds.” He said, letting the hand Tom wasn’t holding fall back to his side. Tom looked down at the wound, now stitched but unbandaged. He couldn't help but notice the rest of the bandaids that covered Tord’s arms. Tom felt a disgusting and unwelcome nostalgia. He remembered looking at his own arms in the mirror, looking similarly.
“I-.. yeah, sorry. I'm missing the TV.” He excused, which made Tord cackle.
“The loss of the TV makes the color drain from your face?” He mused, poking Tom’s cheek with his stitched hand. Tom glared at him, pretending to try and bite his finger off. Tord pulled away from his mouth’s range, but not out of his hold.
“Yes. It does.” He glared at him. He knew Tord saw through him, but he didn't care.
“If you say so.” he reached to poke his face again. This time, Tom did actually bite his finger. Not hard, but enough to send a message.
“Ow! Animal!” Tord used his other hand to flick Tom in the forehead.
“Well, stop touching me you freak.” Tom shot back, feeling the tight worry in his chest slowly unwind as they bantered.
He finished bandaging up his hand, and Tom finally let go of his hand, standing back. Tord lingered in his grip before he let him pull away. Tom figured, for his own sanity, he'd pretend he didn't see that. He didn't need another reason to stay awake at night.
“I’m leaving this here.” He gestured at the medkit, notably not cleaned up, and bloody rags splayed around. Tord had the decency to start throwing the aforementioned rags into the small cheap trashcan by the toilet. “Who knows if you’ll need it again with whatever you’re doing. What is this, the fifth time tonight?” Tom mused, poking Tord’s forehead. Tord batted his hand away.
“Something like that. I didn't know you were keeping count.” Tord replied as he stood, stretching. Tom rolled his eyes as he crossed his arms.
“It’s hard to ignore you stomping around the kitchen.”
"It's not my fault you haven't moved from that spot on the couch for like two hours.”
Tom rolled his eyes again, watching as Tord walked out of the bathroom to retreat back into his room. Tom’s eyes slowly fell down Tord’s arms again. The bandaids, the other scapes and cuts he hadn't bothered to cover. The same, aching anxiety he felt earlier made him act before he could think about it. His hand reached out, like a desperate claw, he grabbed Tord’s wrist before he disappeared down the hall. Tord turned and looked at him, an eyebrow raised with confusion. Tom felt immediate regret. Asking the question that burned on the edge of his tongue felt too vulnerable to give to Tord. But, it spewed out of his mouth before he could shut it behind his teeth.
“You’re not.. Uh- doing it on purpose, right?” he couldn't meet Tord’s eyes, but he could sense his confusion. “The- the cuts I mean.”
Understanding broke upon Tord’s face, and the same concern Tom had seen earlier in the bathroom. Tord snickered, which immediately made Tom regret ever asking.
“I- no. Would you like to see what I'm working on? To soothe your nerves?” Tord offered. He didn't wait for an answer, pulling his hand from Tom’s grip and pulling on the sleeve of Tom’s hoodie. Tom followed curiously, and with a hint of embarrassment.
“I keep nicking myself because I'm watching a show while I work.” He pushed his door open, and ushered to his desk. He had his laptop set up next to his workspace, whatever anime he was watching on pause. Tom immediately felt irritation bubble up when he laid his eyes on the corpse of the remote, laying in a skeletal state, already he could see the obnoxious additions Tord was adding. The blueprints were stuck to the wall, showing various angles of what he could only assume was the final product. He didn't understand a thing about it.
Tom turned to glare at Tord, who had the smuggest look imaginable. Tom wanted to smack the look off his face.
“YOU took the remote.”
“I did.”
“You know we blamed Matt for that?”
“I do.”
“Now you’re sitting here, watching TV shows on your laptop… while maiming our poor remote?”
“If you want to put it like that, sure.”
“...Do you know how boring it is, not being able to watch TV?”
“No. I have my laptop.”
Tom stared at him, certain his eye was twitching. He jabbed Tord in the abdomen, making him double over. He cracked a smile as he heard Tord cursing him out in Norwegian while trying to catch his breath.
“So, can I watch it with you?” Tom gestured to the laptop as Tord was slowly straightening back up.
“Some audacity you have, stabbing me then asking for a favor.” Tord said dramatically, still holding his abdomen.
“Cool, I'll be back. I'm gonna grab Susan.”
“You stab me, then insist on making my ears bleed? No way! Go back to being sad on the couch!”
“Stop being a drama queen. It’s hardly charming when Matt does it.” Tom called back as he went back to the living room to retrieve Susan. She was battered and broken, but he preferred her like that. Especially because Tord had offered to fix her. He can't imagine what futuristic monstrosity he’d turn her into.
When he returned, the door to Tord’s room was unlocked. And Tord had kept the show paused until Tom arrived. Tom settled on the end of the bed, Susan in his lap, he tuned her absentmindedly while watching Tord work. He was completely ignoring the show.