Despite the pleasant time they had together at Tom's house, it didn't kill the aggressive nature Tom had towards Tord. The next day came as if nothing happened and Tord had to live with knowing he only saw the boy's real personality part-time. However, a feeling of pride swelled in his chest, knowing that the Brit only acted like that when they were alone, as if Tord was special enough to see who he truly was while everyone got to see the mask he wore. It created this faux idea of intimacy in Tord's head, making him think they were closer than they actually were. The horn-haired boy didn't mind the black-eyed boy's harsh words as long as he got to see the real him when they were alone.

He liked it, maybe a bit too much. Feeding a sickened idea that Tom was only his to know and nobody had the same right, nobody deserved Tom like he did. He'd happily bicker in public to keep up the shorter boy's facade, not wanting his mask to slip up either. Tom was only his, to know and understand; his face grew red just at the thought of it.

The boys had settled into a routine where Tord would walk to Tom's house when he was sent out, and Tom wouldn't ask any questions, just let him inside or go on a walk with him while they smoked cigarettes. Tord would sell his soul to make sure it never ended. He grew fond of the boy's insults and furrowed scowls, he couldn't live without it.

It was a Thursday and the two boys sat in Tom's room, reviewing the notebook Tom had been using to teach Tord English. His grammar had gotten better, but he still struggled with conjunctions and past tense, present tense, and future tense words. Tom tried to break it down in a way that explained definitive ways they are used, trying to make sure he explained it properly, considering it was easier for him to speak English than explain it. Soon Tord's English became mostly fluent, being able to convey his thoughts clearly. The October air filled Tom's room through an open window. Tord took a deep breath as he read the pages of 1984 by George Orwell, not stopping as frequently as he used to. A proud smile stretched across Tom's face.

"I've done good," The Brit said with a smile, his braces showing.

"You did good? I'm the one who learned to speak English fluently!" Tord exclaimed, playfully pushing the emo boy in front of him.

Tom rolled his eyes with a laugh, "Yeah sure, I guess you did good too or whatever," He teased, his smile unchanging. "Wanna play Smash?" Tom suggested, already standing up to get his Nintendo.

"Hell yeah," Tord said enthusiastically watching as Tom plugged the Nintendo into his TV and quickly threw him a controller that the Norsk caught.

Although their relationship had turned into somewhat of a friendship, they still didn't exchange conversations often. The two usually bonded by sharing moments together, like playing video games or walking together in silence. Tom would say they had nothing to talk about while Tord would reason that they didn't know what to say. There was truth in both statements that neither one acknowledged. To be fair, they had never expressed this to each other, and perhaps never will.

The two picked their characters: Tord chose Bowser while Tom chose Ike. The map loaded up and after a brief standoff, the two went to attack each other.

Tord found it funny how every win Tom celebrated and took it to heart while for every loss the Brit had a small outburst as if he had just won 3 games in a row. Tord didn't respond with such passion; instead, he only reacted when he was close to winning and suddenly lost, or vice versa, letting out a sigh of disappointment. The two continued for hours, becoming more verbal as the game went on, occasionally yelling or pushing at each other. Tord glanced over at Tom who was biting his snakebites in a focused manner, his black eyes fixated on the TV in front of him. Tord couldn't hide his smile or slight blush while watching his face. He'd always found it endearing the way Tom fidgeted with his piercings as a way to pacify his stress or nervousness. Tord was ashamed to admit how attached he'd grown to the Brit, and even more ashamed of what he thought. Tord previously had never thought of himself as mean or snide, let alone vitriolic, but recently after moving to London, he felt his morals shift. Teasing Tom brought joy to his days, and he felt a strange sense of protectiveness. He couldn't tell if this was for Tom himself or if it was because he finally had someone he was close to; as if this was just a by-product of not having close friends for so long. Still, he couldn't remedy the way his chest tightened when he looked at the emo, so instead he'd look away and realize that he'd easily K. his character when he was distracted, leaving the grey-eyed boy with nothing to do but smile with a small laugh.

Eventually, they switched to Minecraft, becoming too tired to keep up with the energy it took to play a combat game. Over the past month their base had improved greatly; a beautiful house on top of a mountain courtesy of Tord and a sub-level that had tunnels that traveled every which way, several leading to the base of the mountain. They had a farm they were slowly expanding upon. Currently, it consists of cows, sheep, chickens, pigs, wheat, carrots, and a small row of sugar cane; the entirety of it is organized nicely. Tom harvested the wheat and carrots before going downstairs to feed the animals and kill them for food, wool, feathers– whatever they dropped.

Most of their base was inside the mountain itself connected to the house on the hill. Together, they had decorated the house nicely, a row of furnaces, smokers, blast furnaces, and a campfire along the wall when you first entered accompanied by a crafting table and a few bookcases which made it resemble a kitchen. Past the kitchen were several chests along with a makeshift table and chairs which made the house look more homely. Nearby there were stairs that led upstairs where their beds were placed, a bookcase with a cornflower in a pot separating them. There was a chest next to each bed that had the boy's personal items. The beds were colored, one red, one blue. Out of trust, they didn't go into each other's chest; except for the one time Tom checked Tord's chest and found a book and quill full of Norwegian. To the Brit, it looked like gibberish, unsure of what any of it said. Tom had his own book and quill full of coordinates. There was a banner on either side of the room as well, decorated by the person on their associated side. Tom had figured out how to make something similar to a checkered pattern while Tord made a plain green banner with a creeper face on it.

While Tom was upkeeping the farm, Tord was carving out more tunnels, making room for their soon-to-be nether portal. Tord tried to decorate the room but decided to wait until he got materials from the other dimension. Tom glanced at the bottom half of the TV, "Don't tell me you're going to make me go to the nether with you?" Tom says, knowing that he'd never survive due to being so bad at combat.

Tord chuckled, "No, you'd just slow me down," the Norsk said and Tom felt relieved.

Tom sighs in relief, "For once I'll admit you're right."

They both exchanged a small laugh.

Tord retrieved supplies as Tom continued to do domestic maintenance around the world, chopping down trees before going mining while Tord explored the Nether. Eventually after playing for another hour or so the sound of the front door opening and slamming shut echoes throughout the house.

"My mom is home," the blond states the obvious as he mines a vein of diamonds before turning around to go back the way he came.

Tord had met Tom's mom before and thought she was quite kind.

"Should we go down and say hi?" The Norsk asked but Tom quickly shook his head.

"No, she slammed the door and threw her keys on the counter, that means-" the Brit cut himself off, "Never mind, it's just not a good idea." The short boy explained, turning back to the TV, going upstairs he had dug out earlier, trying to find his way back home. Tord shrugged. Deep down he knew what Tom meant, his father having his own tell-signs when he's having a bad day. The ginger-brunette shifted on the bed as he crossed a bridge he had built while adventuring, sprinting as a ghast began shooting fireballs at him. As Tom was trying to make his way back home from the caves, he became distracted as he watched the taller boy be attacked by mobs. This led to 3 zombies sneaking up on him causing him to jump, practically out of his skin as he went to attack them.

Tom wasn't sure why he had an outburst, "Tord! Tord the zombies are gonna get me!" He exclaimed.

The Norsk just laughed, "What do you want me to do? I can't save you a whole dimension away!"

The Brit didn't listen to Tord's reasoning, "No! They're gonna get me!" He said although he was fighting them off fine. The blonde wasn't sure if he was joking, he never had words spill from his mouth like that without at least being able to think them over but judging by the humor he heard laced in his own voice, he assumed he must have.

The taller boy only smiled at his friend's outburst, laughing whole-heartedly, unsure why he thought it was so funny.

Suddenly there was stomping up the stairs and Tom's heart dropped, leaving him pale.

"Why the hell are you making so much noise? Do you have someone in there with you?" Tom's mom yelled from down the hall, her footsteps growing closer.

"Yeah! I told you Tord was coming over!" Tom yelled back, his mom opening the door as he replied.

She gripped the door knobs and door frame, "Don't yell at me! And no you didn't ask!" She said, her voice laced with irritation. The blonde opened his mouth to respond but was quickly cut off. "You think you can just invite people over whenever you want like you own the place! You have to let me bloody know! I didn't even buy enough dinner to feed an extra mouth! So you better send your little foreign friend back where he came from," she hissed beginning to walk away while Tom gripped the sheets of his bed with an embarrassed expression before glancing over at Tord.

"I think you should go," Tom said quietly, the grey-eyed boy nodding silently in response. "I'm really sorry about this," Tom said, anger swelling in his chest– he shouldn't be having to apologize for his mother's behavior.

Tord just waved his hand in an understanding manner, "It's okay. I know she's not always this," he said softly, grabbing his backpack and shoes.

Tom followed Tord out of the room and down the stairs where the Brit's mom was leaning against the wall of the corridor. "You have to stop bringing home strays Thomas," she hissed, saying it like she believed the lie herself. Tom silently waved goodbye as Tord left out the front door, closing it quietly. Tom's mom had watched him the whole way out with a glare and finally turned back to her son once the horn-haired boy left.

"The hell are you doing bringing over people without asking?" The light brunette woman hissed as she walked into the kitchen, pulling groceries out of bags.

"Mom, I swear I asked I-"

"Bullshit!" She yelled, "You never ask for shit! You don't ask when friends Come over! You don't ask to leave the house! You don't ask how my day is! And you don't ask before you punch another hole in your face! You look like a punk-ass pin cushion!" there was venom in her voice.

Tom tried to keep a neutral expression, noting how she slipped in her personal life as she reamed him out for something he didn't do wrong. For Tom, that was enough evidence that this was just the product of her having a bad day.

"What? You're not going to say anything now?" She hissed.

"You're not going to listen to a thing I say," the boy said plainly, his voice flat.

The woman gasped as if he just cursed her out with every word from the dictionary, "I am not a bad mother!" She exclaimed, her face red with anger.

"Hey! I never said you're a bad mother!" He tried to explain himself. He went to open his mouth again, hoping to explain himself further but was cut off.

"Don't talk to me in that tone of voice Thomasson Nathienal Thompson!" She hissed, using his full government name.

Tom ran his fingers through his hair, trying to stay calm, not wanting to get into a screaming match with his mother, "What tone are you talking about? I'm-"

"Don't talk back to me!" She yelled, "You never listen to me! No one ever listens to me!" She leans onto the counter for support as she begins to cry. Tom takes a step away, not entirely sure how to handle her when she's in this state. All he can do is tell himself that it's not his fault, she's just upset and taking it out on him to feel better, which although remedied the idea that he did everything wrong, left the side effect of anger in knowing that his mom was more immature than he was. Even as a child, his mom had relied on him for support, asking him if she was a bad mother or why no one liked her. The 6-year-old never had an answer, but neither did she when he asked her why his father was so mean. Tom swallowed the spit that had been accumulating in his mouth and was brought back to reality as he watched his mother choke out another sob. The boy took a step back, beginning to go back to his room.

"Don't you leave while I'm talking to you!" She screamed. "I'll rip out that hideous metal in your face one by one!"

He didn't know what to say, he didn't know what to do. He glanced at the groceries, just trying to come up with a way to pivot this situation.

"Mom, you really made the best chicken breasts, with the.. the.." he glances back at the groceries on the table and around the kitchen, "With the oranges. I know I messed up today," which was a blatant lie, "But I think I just missed you and the way you cook. I'm sorry for acting out," Tom tried to place his words carefully, not wanting to escalate the conversation.

"Orange chicken?" She repeated to herself, "Yeah, yeah. Thank you for apologizing, I won't be so nice the next time," she said as if it had been Tom yelling but not her. Tom paid no mind however and instead took the victory and went back to his room.

He wasn't sure why his mom acted like this. He had searched the house multiple times in the past but never found any pills or drugs to try and pin to her behavior. He didn't want to think that it was just who his mom was; a bombshell that could explode any moment. He hated it when his mom broke down like this, and it always seemed to be right after she was doing better. She'll be happy, put together for weeks, and then all of a sudden she'll scream, sometimes even break things before she falls into something like a depression until the cycle repeats. He wishes he had grown used to it, but you can't get used to something like that. It would be easier if she's always angry, not always sad, but it's the fact that she had an episode of chipperness that makes it so hard. It reminds him that she's not a horrible person and he can't hate her for how she acts, but then he goes and does the same thing again with no explanation. He could never get used to that.

Tom laid in his room, rubbing his wrists and scratching his hoodie to try and soothe himself, being too restless to go on his phone. He looked at the TV which was now on the Minecraft home screen. The Brit thought that he should have been old enough to where it didn't hurt him anymore, but his inner child couldn't help but wonder and plea:

"Why does she act like this? Why does she have to treat me this way? What made her so mean? Is it my fault?

Is it my fault?"

"No," he said to himself, "It's not my fault." He hoped that if he said it out loud it would be easier to believe but the words just hurt his tongue. His chest aches and his blood roars. Everything in his being told him to cry but he refused, continuing to stare at the ceiling instead, laying in silence while hoping his bed would be kind enough to swallow him whole so he'd never have to go through that again. He'd happily give up everyone in his life just to not go through that again. Knowing his mother's pattern, however, it will happen again, and soon. She is a lidded pot on the verge of boiling over. Soon the top will go flying and surely hit him in the face.

After a while she called him down for dinner, sitting at the table enthusiastically in front of her son. He knew she'd carry on like nothing happened, that's what she always did, but it didn't change how jarring it looked when the situation played out in front of him.

"It's your favorite," she smiled, "Help yourself," she said as she began using her fork to take food off the tray in the center of the table and place it on her plate, going from the chicken to the carrots.

"Thank you," Tom said hoping to keep on her good side.

"Psh, don't thank me. It makes me feel like you didn't expect me to do it," her expression grew darker as she spoke. The teenager at the table wasn't sure what to say. If he said the chicken tasted good she'd accuse him of saying her food usually tastes bad, if he said nothing she'd get mad at him for ignoring her. He had to speak carefully.

"I'm just grateful to have you as a mother," he said, forcing a smile as he looked down at the food, "Not everyone cooks as amazingly as you do."

This seemed to pacify her, the grim expression quickly changing to something similar to pride as she cut her chicken into bite-size pieces.

"Thank you, Thomas, you're a half-decent son yourself." She said as if her comment was a compliment.

Tom felt like he was walking on glass for the rest of dinner. When he finally finished his plate and washed it in the sink it felt like the weight of the world was lifted off his shoulders. His mom let him go to his room without another word and he threw himself on his bed, exhausted from the series of events that occurred today. Something inside him said his mom was why Edd and Matt didn't come over, and another part said they didn't come over because he was just Like her. He tried to push the thought away but it haunted him, it will always haunt him for as long as he lives. He can not outrun is DNA no matter how fast he goes.

For a moment he thinks back to P.E. and how fast Tord ran around the track, easily leaving Tom in the dust behind him.

"I bet Tord could.

I bet he could outrun himself in a heartbeat."

The Brit wasn't entirely wrong. There was an ache that lived in Tords bones, a secret he kept so well that even he didn't know what it was. While Tom was staring at the ceiling while Tord was staring at his carpet, neither one was aware of how similar they were. Tord was staring off into space, practically counting each fiber in the carpet as he tried to tune out the sound of his parents arguing. He often wondered what was the point of beginning together if they still argued like this. He'd often hear his name slip past their lips while they argued leading him to wonder if it was his fault. The Norsks body felt too heavy to lay down so he sat up on the edge of his bed to try and balance his weight. In the back of his mind, he thought that his organs may be crushed under his own weight like a horse that laid down too long. He knew the thought was silly for several reasons. First of all; the boy was well-built, and second of all; he wasn't a horse.

Tord let out an exhausted sigh and looked out his window. He wasn't sure what he was feeling, if he was feeling anything at all. He felt the physical effects of emotion but there was nothing in his head to go along with it he felt it, but couldn't feel it. He barely knew how to describe it in Norwegian, let alone English, so he had accepted that it was something he'd never be able to talk about, like anyone would want to listen.

Tord walked to his window and opened it, climbing onto the roof of the patio and closing his window almost completely, leaving enough room for him to be able to open it. He took his phone out of his pocket and quietly out on music, setting his phone on the window sill before taking out his pack of cigarettes, lighting one before putting the pack back away in his pocket. He took a deep inhale, the smoking warming his lungs as his head began to buzz. It was always a welcoming feeling. Sometimes he felt like this was the only good thing his dad did for him, other times he was aware of how fucked it was for his dad to give him cigarettes just to get him to leave. The first time it happened he didn't even want them, but after having the pack sitting in his drawer long enough he finally tried one. Maybe he's been hooked ever since, but he wouldn't know considering he'd never try to quit.

His dad, Pau, hated that his dad, Patryk, did that, but it was just another argument that was never going to get anywhere. Most of the time it felt like their arguments could be solved so easily if they just focused on the solution instead of the problem, but they were too busy being mad at each other to talk clearly.

Those thoughts faded from Tord's mind as he took another drag from the cigarette in his hand. He wasn't sure if he'd be able to go to Tom's house again, but he sure wished he was there right now. The Norsked stared out at the night sky, wishing he could see the stars like he could back in Norway, but the light pollution of the suburban neighborhood made it impossible. He brought his knees to his chest and rested his head on them before taking another drag, blowing the smoke out in front of him. He had never been so excited to have school tomorrow.

When his cigarette was burnt down to the bud, Tord finally put it out and layed outside a while longer. From here, he couldn't hear his dad's yelling and the fall air nipping at his skin was soothing. It proved to him that he could still feel even if he didn't know how he felt. He wasn't sure why he couldn't get upset like other people, or why it felt like he had no anger. He did when he was younger but one day it just disappeared, like it evaporated into thin air. The boy couldn't tell if it was gone, or just hiding, lying dormant to someday awaken. All he knew was that he wanted to feel something other than faux happiness, something real. He hated walking around school like some golden retriever. He wanted to be able to be upset, to be angry at his situation. At least feel sorry for himself, but it wasn't in his biology. Tord thought of it like how someone could be living the best possible life but still be depressed because that's what their neurologically predisposed to, perhaps he was predisposed to being happy– indefinitely.

Just the thought of being happy forever made Tord groan. He felt stupid. Who begs to be depressed? Who begs to feel something other than happy? Tord, apparently.

It wasn't that he wanted to suffer, he just wanted to react accordingly to his situation. He can't live a life where all he feels is either happy or numb. He has a right to feel sad, angry, upset, or even excited. Instead, he had nothing except a switch, on or off, happy or nothing. As Tord stared at the empty black sky and picked at the fundamentals of his brain he convinced himself he'd feel one day, and acknowledged it would most likely come out all at once. He didn't know if he had been subconsciously bottling his feelings for years, but one day they would escape, and he had no clue what would happen once he did.

He lit another cigarette just at the thought.