Chapter Text
Tord was a good listener, probably the best listener Tom knew; that’s why he adored talking to him when he wasn’t being an asshole. But now Tord was gone, having left to go to the big city to live his big dreams or whatever excuse he had spat out.
Tom wasn’t mad or angry—well, not as much as he was before. The Brit knew he had attachment issues, and he knew they would be the death of him one day, but he willingly ignored it all.
He signed and pulled his knees closer and held the bottle of vodka with a tight grip. He didn’t miss Tord, not really; he just wanted him back. Even if he had to fight with him on the daily, even if he had to hear his obnoxious laughter deep into the night, even if he had to watch as the shameless pervert walked around with his hentai magazine in hand.
Tom left his train of thoughts when he felt the bottle against his lips. Drinking was always second nature, a motion he repeated every time he could. Even when half asleep, he’d still finish the bottle while being unaware. He didn’t think for a moment as the vodka rushed down his throat and the glass left his lips.
And then he thought again.
Tom didn’t know when or how, but it had accrued to him that Tord was his closest friend: the one who knew him best. Sure, Tord didn’t know the little inside jokes Tom had made with Edd and Matt, and he probably never got to watch a show with Tom alone, but he knew Tom’s mind unlike anyone else.
For years, Tom and Tord would meet up at random places in the middle of the night: sometimes in the hallway, sometimes in the kitchen, sometimes in the backyard or down the street. Tom knew where he was headed every time, but he never knew where Tord was going, had gone, or what he wanted to do. Still, the two paid little mind to it and made their way to the cliff that overlooked their house, where they would sit down and Tom would talk.
He’d talk like his life depended on it, and honestly, it sort of did. Even when he had no idea what he was talking about, the moment he stopped rambling because he ran out of air, he felt relieved. And then he’d look at Tord, who had listened to him like every word he said mattered, like every thought he had was valid, all while holding a cigarette he took his sweet time smoking.
And then Tom could continue talking or take one last sip of his alcohol and realize he had finished it, then Tord would accompany him down the cliff, helping him when he asked for a hand.
Sometimes they didn’t go to the cliff; either it was too early and people could spot them or it was too late and neither really had the energy. Tom still couldn’t make sense of why he was so worried about being seen with Tord, talking to him like he was a friend, but that fear had always led to them spending their time in either their bedrooms, where the same routine followed with the exception that when it was early in the morning, Tord would make breakfast while Tom quietly went on and on. At one point, Tom would feel himself dozing off and the second he woke up, a glass of water and plate of whatever Tord had made would be set right in front of him with no sign of Tord.
The thought of someone who knew you so well leaving without any worry for you made Tom feel like he was choking, like barbwire was wrapped right around his throat. He wasn’t codependent on Tord, not really, and he wasn’t expecting Tord to care for him because he cares for him, because he doesn’t. But it felt like he had unintentionally given value to something Tord had regarded as nonsense. It was bothersome, terrifying even.
Something close to anger, maybe resentment, filled the drunk Brit, causing him to pull his phone out of his jean pocket and turn it on, typing the password without thought and going to his messages. He spared himself the scrolling and instead typed in the name he had saved Tord as: Commie.
Looking at the last message Tom felt himself snap out of it and analyze it.
The picture wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, just crates upon crates of Smirnoff with a huge 50% sign hanged up above them. There was no context to it.
But for some reason it made Tom grow annoyed, not at Tord, but at himself. He suddenly felt awake and felt how cold it was and how stupid it had been to drag himself to the cliff that overlooked the house while wearing jeans and a shirt he wasn’t even sure belonged to him.
He looked down at his phone again, this time more focused. For a while it’s been like this: he’d unblock Tord, want to message him an angry text, but never do, and then block him again. It was a routine he was starting to grow disgusted by.
Almost everything that comforted him or served him peace had to do with Tord. Even when he wasn’t aware of it.
Tom tucked his phone clumsily back into his pocket and pushed his body off the ground. He felt slightly dizzy, but it wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle; he wasn’t even that drunk.
The walk back to the house was as calming as it could be, with Tom feeling like the cold made its way straight into his bones and the shirt he had on being nothing but something he had imagined.
Usually Tord would have had his keys stuffed somewhere and would open the front door, but he wasn’t around, so Tom made his way to one of the open windows his room had and crawled in. What a night this was.
The Brit needed a couple of seconds to pick himself up off the ground, but once he did, he made a beeline to his bed. Once he got comfortable on it, he looked at his bottle of vodka. He couldn’t even bother wondering if he had spilled some or if the liquid inside had remained inside because all he cared about was finishing it off.
All Tom could remember after putting the rim of the bottle to his lips was that he opened his phone and turned it off before passing out, something that also became a routine for him.
What Tom couldn’t remember was the fact he had unblocked Tord and called him with no hesitation whatsoever; this time he was too tired to talk to him; while gathering a mix of thoughts and energy, he had listened to Tord’s voice call out, “Hello?” In a tired tone. It took Tom a couple of seconds before sighing.
“I miss you.”, the words left his mouth easily, like a confession he wasn’t really ashamed of: because he wasn’t ashamed of it.
A beat of silence followed where Tord felt like he was weighing his next words carefully. “You tell me that a lot.” the soft sound of a pen being put down followed. “But only when you’re drunk.”
Tom felt an odd ping of hurt— or maybe was it guilt?
“Yeah, but we both know I miss you regardless of I’m drunk or sober.” The Brit answered, honest as he could.
The expression on Tord’s face was a mystery to both of them since the Norwegian had refused to look at his face and Tom couldn’t look at him. Still, both of them shred a satisfied smile; Tom smiled because he had finally said it, Tord smiled because he had finally heard it.
Then, without much thought, Tom hung up, deleting the message that showed he had called the other and blocking him again before going to the call logs and removing the call between them. And only then did he pass out.