The next day at school the two didn't speak about what happened at Tom's house. There was a silent understanding so another word didn't have to be said. Tom sat at his desk quietly, staring at nothing while Tord laughed with Edd and Matt as if he hadn't tried to rip his heart out on his patio just to feel something the night before. He laughed, baring his teeth as his chest heaved up and down. He bit his lip to stop. It wasn't that funny, why was he laughing so hard? The Norsk was grateful Edd and Matt didn't notice, considering they were too busy playfully pushing each other with smiles. The horn-haired boy felt hollow when he stopped laughing and sat down at his desk. The feeling was unexplainable, like there was a hole inside him and there was nothing for him to think or feel. There was nothing at all.
The day continued as it usually did, except today Tord felt more focused on his school work, not that he didn't have straight As already. He spent less time throwing things at Tom and instead focused on writing what the teacher was saying in his notebook. It wasn't until halfway through the class he realized he was writing his notes in Norwegian and let out a soft sigh, giving up on trying to correct it and finishing them in his native language. It felt like the classes were flashing past him, homeroom, math, ELA, robotics, it was all flying past him. He was a victim to time and for a moment he thought it was selfish– the way time waited for no one, even itself. No one can change that. Time will continue to pass whether you like it or not, so you can either try and keep up or let it run over you. Tord had been trying to outrun it his whole life, trying to catch himself extra minutes so he could at least have some downtime, but he never was fast enough.
When P.E. rolled around his head was still cloudy as he fumbled with his locker. He pulled at the metal, trying to get it to unlock like he did every day when Tom came up behind him and hit it, the door swinging open. It was a pattern, something that happened every day and for some reason, it meant something to the Norsk. Tom would always be there to help him, whether it was with learning English, giving him a place to stay, or as simple as opening his locker for him, the Brit was always there and it warmed Tord's chest. There were no words tied to the feeling, just a fluttering stimulus in his chest that centered him for a moment. Tord would never remember to hit the locker, and even if he did, he'd probably pretend he forgot just so Tom could do it for him. He enjoyed the dependency, the idea that because of that they were tied together indefinitely, that those situations had left a mark as much on Tom as it did on Tord. Tord just wished the Brit had as much of a dependency on him, and he did the Brit.
As Tord ran laps, he finally felt some relief from the ache in his head. The action of running was helping him beat some kind of clock he was racing against, although he didn't even know what the clock was set for, why it was there, or what it was counting. All he knew was that he had to beat it. Tord ran as if he were racing against himself, trying his hardest to beat some kind of unrealistic goal.
As Tom watched him run he could shake the idea that he was somehow majestic, like a horse running free in a field like he didn't have a care in the world. He couldn't be more wrong.
Tord took a deep breath as he ran, picking up the pace as he ran another lap. He didn't want to stop, the pressure in his head was subsiding for the first time today, the cool air pricking at his skin calming him. He let out another deep breath as runners high kicked in, urging him to run more– to go faster, to run longer. He followed his subconscious's request, running another lap. The Norsks's hair stuck to his forehead, sweat dripping down his face. He was about to run another lap before he heard a whistle blow.
"Tord!" The coach yelled, "You've ran two extra laps already! Save it for practice, okay?"
Tord jogged off the track and towards the coach, "Sorry Sir, I just got caught up in running. Felt free you know?"
Coach nodded pridefully, "You have a heart for sports," he said warmly, "but I told you to cut out that "sir" tall. It's just coach around here."
Tord nodded, "Sorry - coach" he had to correct himself. The teachers had more formal identifiers in Norway than they do here so although he's not used to saying it in English, he could help but address them with formality once he learned the identifiers in English.
Tom jogged off the track, out of breath having just finished his 4th and last lap. "The hell were you doing back there? Tryna show us all up?" He gasped and tried to take deep breaths as he spoke.
"No, it just felt good, I wanted to run more," the taller boy explained, sweat soaking through his shirt.
Tom scoffed, "Exercise feeling good, that's a bloody joke," He hissed, wiping sweat from his forehead before crossing his arms.
"I'm serious I-" Tord tried to find his words, "It felt like I was floating."
Tom just rolled his eyes, "Really? What, did you train at some communist Norwegian camp and become addicted to it or something?" his voice was laced with sarcasm, a sneer covering his face.
Tord raised a brow, "Norway has a blandet økonomi og et fritt marked," he spat the words so fast he couldn't even think about trying to translate the sentence. He wasn't sure why his head felt so scattered today like pressure building in a soda can. "mixed… økonomi…økonomi…. Economy!" He said as he remembered how to say the word in English. "And has-"
Tord was cut off, "Please, if I wait for you to finish I'm sure I'd be here all day. Norwegian and Russian sound similar– I know you're a communist," Tom said dismissively, perhaps purposely trying to get under Tords skin.
"I am not communist! Norwegian and Russian come from Skandinavisk roots so they sound similar! You can't tell-" The Norsk was cut off again.
"Yeah yeah, save it for the peanut gallery." The Brit waved his hand dismissively as he began to walk away, the grey-eyed boy's blooding feeling like it was beginning to boil. Sure Tom had been aware of just how racist those remarks were. Perhaps that was the plan; to get Tord all worked up to make him feel like he had control over something, just trying to prove that he still had some kind of skill he was better at than Tord. The taller boy was none the wiser to the black-eyed boy's actions and instead stood there clenching his fist. "Synes han at han er søt når han oppfører seg som en jævla drittunge?" He mutters to himself, choosing to not follow him.
Tord sat at his desk during English 7th period, Tom sat next to him, his gaze fixated on the papers on his desk. There was a burning kn Tord's chest, and not the fluttering kind. This was vengeful, desperate like it would claw its way through his skin or out his throat to escape. This was accompanied by another feeling: a feeling that vaguely fed the thought that perhaps this was a dream and he wasn't there at all. Maybe he wasn't sitting in class right now, maybe Matt wasn't chewing gum behind him. Maybe he was still lying in bed and soon he'd wake up to all of this being a fantasy, not that it was a pleasant one. The exchange from P.E. had helped the ginger-brunette bring words to these feelings. He didn't feel seen. Even when he looked in the mirror he didn't feel like he had been seeing himself. His smile was fake, his laugh felt like a pre-recording, his jokes something he was simply reading out of a book from his mind. Nothing about himself felt real, and his ethnicity being misinterpreted helped him come to that realization.
It made him feel envious of Tom. In his mind, Tom never had to wonder if it was him he was seeing in the mirror due to all of his piercings, each mark of metal acting similar to a tag that proved he was himself. He was jealous that the blonde never forced himself to laugh or contribute to an exchange he found distasteful. Everything he did, he did because he chose to. Every step he took seemed meticulous compared to Tord's, who was simply just trying to get to the other side. The horn-haired boy's lips tugged into a frown, his stomach twisting into knots. He could use a cigarette right now, or maybe a new coat, shirt, shoes, bracelet, or anything that could serve as an identifier. He had never thought about never recognizing himself but now that he's had that epiphany, he can't think about anything else. It clawed at him, desperate to escape and manifest itself inside physical form. He just needed to change something about himself. He just needed to be able to recognize himself in the mirror.
When Tord went home he didn't feel any more at ease. His Dad Patryk picks him up from school every day and although he talks the whole drive Tord never seems to get a word in; not that his dad minded talking to a brick wall. The boy felt more like he was there to hear his dad's monologue than someone he was actually talking to. He learned to not mind, he knew his dad needed it and that he had things he needed to get out of his system; this is how he did that.
When they got home the Norsk practically jumped out of the car and walked into the house, hurrying into his room. He wouldn't have to deal with his father, Paul, for another 3 hours due to him being at work. His dads alternated, organizing their schedules so they were always someone home. He wasn't sure why they did this. Maybe it was because they didn't trust their son, or maybe it was so there was always someone to take care of the house. He didn't know.
The boy laid down on his bed and felt all his stress from the day dissipate. Half of him felt relieved, like he could finally relax while the other half was filled with an empty feeling, perhaps similar to frustration or anger. His head felt hollow like there was nothing for him to think about. He wondered why he was so adaptable to situations. For a moment he spiraled around fictional scenarios, thinking about how he'd react to different negative situations, and wondered why he'd act like that. Perhaps how he carried himself now was the mature thing to do, maybe his nonchalant nature made him "the bigger man", but he was 15. There was nothing he had to be better for, no reason to be mature, and certainly no one he was competing against to be the "bigger man."
Tord laid there, trying to convince himself that his anger, frustration, and sadness were understandable, that it's how he should feel. For a moment he asked himself why his numbness wasn't understandable but he pushed the thought away before he could go down that pipeline.
He wasn't actually numb. It was more like he was overwhelmed with acceptance, like no matter what happened he was okay with it, he accepted that it happened and moved forward with what happened. You still have to play the game no matter what cards you were dealt after all.
The Norsk rolled over on his bed and began scrolling through his phone. He was bored and with his mind cloudy he wasn't sure how to fill the time. He decided to text the group chat that he was added to when he first transferred here, the members consisting of Edd, Tom, Matt, and Tord. He texted a simple "What are you guys doing?"
And then went to scroll on reels, an answer not being sent until 10 minutes later.
Edd: doing homework, what about you?
"Homework," the Norsk thought, "Yeah that's a good idea."
He got up and dug through his backpack, not bothering to respond. He got his notebook and remembered how he had written his notes in Norwegian by accident and decided to put in the effort to translate it. He opened the notebook and got a pencil flipping through the pages back and forth before finally ripping them out so it was easier to translate onto the page.
Tom was in his room, plucking strings on Susan, bobbing his head slightly as he played a rift, going from A to E, to C and then reversing the progression. He tried to pair it with more fingerings, playing it over several times before going from C to G, back and forth a couple of times before returning to the previous progression, trying to pair the pieces into a melody. The Brit let out a satisfied hum, his calloused on his fingertips turning white as he played. He felt like he was onto something. If he just goes from A to a high C, to D, To E then he could make something good. Just as he was about to pair the melodies, his phone vibrated and he picked it up, even though he should have just kept playing. He let out an irritated sigh and checked his notifications. It was Tord asking what everyone was doing. The emo almost responded but decided against it. When Tom put his phone down suddenly all passion to play was erratically, his flow having been interrupted. He silently cursed himself, was it really that easy for him to lose the will to do something? He didn't want to think so but the evidence was right in front of him. He put his bass down and walked over to his bed, scrolling on his phone aimlessly.
He spent the rest of the day rotting, unwilling to do anything that required him to leave his bed. He knew he should clean his piercings, he should get something to eat, hell, he should do anything other than lay here longer. His tongue sticker to the roof of his mouth but he felt no motivation to get up and retrieve water, being thirsty not being enough reason in his tired head. He bit at his snakebites, the metal jewelry rubbing against the wire of his braces before he quickly forced himself to stop, scared they'd get stuck.
By the time he got off his phone, he had a slight headache from dehydration and his mom was cooking downstairs, he could hear a low, seldom hum coming from her through the floor. He turned onto his back– his phone next to him– and ran his fingers through his hair. The blonde boy rubbed his eyes and sat up, throwing his legs over the side of the bed, and went to the bathroom, which was another thing he had been procrastinating. Afterwards, he went downstairs to get water from the fridge, his mom standing by the stove. She glanced over at him.
"You look tired," She commented, "Did you take a nap today?"
"No?" The boy responded, closing the fridge door, water bottle in hand.
She saw the light from the fridge turn on in the corner of her eye and disregarded his answer, "You shouldn't sleep during the day, you won't sleep at night." she didn't look up from the pan that contained numerous vegetables. They were half-cooked and slowly caramelizing. Tom's stomach twisted in hunger just at the sight of them.
"Okay Mom," Tom said, not ready to argue over whether he really took a nap today. Part of him understood where she was coming from. As a child, Tom used to try and nap every day after school and then would never end up going to bed on time, but he wasn't 7 anymore and even if he did nap he was sure he could sleep soundly through the night. He had enough exhaustion stockpiled for him to sleep months straight.
The boy knew it wouldn't be long until dinner was ready so he sat in the living room, watching the TV that had been on before he went downstairs. It was on the news channel. His black eyes were fixated on the screen although he was only half listening. He found that the news usually just made him angry or upset; so he wasn't sure why his mom watched, especially since she can be so emotional, to put it lightly. Soon he was called to dinner so he pulled himself all the couch and sat at the table, he served food onto his plate and examined it. His mouth watered at the smell. His mom may have not always been the best person but she was an amazing cook; a trait Tom didn't inherit. The boy could easily burn water and get microwave food set on fire. He stabbed a small stalk of broccoli with his fork and blew on it to cool it down before taking a bite.
He ate dinner slowly, he didn't feel a need to rush. Tom had never been a fast eater. He chewed thoroughly, one bit after the other, savoring the flavor. Along with vegetables, his mom made small steaks that were well-seasoned. He thought it was delicious. He had a few years until he moved out but he was sure he'd miss his mom's cooking, at least once a week. He tried not to voice his thoughts on his Mom's cooking often, fearing that she'd make a scene about it instead of accepting the compliment. The blonde boy took another bite and when he looked up he saw his mom staring at him. She was smiling fondly as if she was recalling a bittersweet memory.
"You look more and more like your father every day," She smiled, "But you have my eyes, nothing will ever change that." she sounded far off, like how someone would talk to themselves in a dream.
Tom tried to hide his uncomfortable expression, "Thank you," He said softly but his mother's face contorted.
"I didn't ask for you to look like your father. Don't bloody thank me," She hissed softly, going back to her food, "You're going to be the death of me."
The boy said nothing, knowing that was the best course of action in this situation. He finished his food silently and washed his plate before drying it and putting it away. He walked up to his bedroom and laid down, letting out a deep breath. Reached for the drawer on his bedside table– not reaching it the first time and having to get up– and got earbuds. He plugged his earbuds into his phone jack and put his liked songs on shuffle, Bathtub by The Prince & The Hyenas coming on first. The melody had a soothing chord progression with lyrics loud enough to numb his brain. For once he didn't have to think.
He layed in his room listening to music for what felt like forever. He felt himself drift away from his body, but soon his phone vibrated causing Pools by Glass Animals to cut for a moment. The Brit checked his phone, wanting to find out what caused his music to pause for a moment and turn his phone on silent. He was greeted with a message from Tord.
Tord: Look outside.
He took out his earbuds and saw 2 small pebbles on the outside of his windowsill which he quickly realised from the Norsk. Another small pebble hit his window and he opened it, peering out.
"What are you doing here? It's late," Tom said. The horn-haired boy said nothing and instead gestured for him to come outside. The blonde boy rolled his eyes, closing the window and retrieving his phone before he went downstairs, walking to the front door. "I'm going on a walk Mom, I'll be back soon," He said. The light-brunette woman waved dismissively, a glass of wine in hand. The boy took that as permission to leave and left through the front door, shoving his hands in his hoodie pocket as the October air nipped at his skin through his clothes. Tord was outside waiting for him.
"C'mon. I have a mission for us," He said, not even batting an eye at how strange the statement sounded.
Tom however raised a brow. "What do you mean a mission, did your dad kick you out again?"
Tord nodded as they walked forward, "We're going to the store," He said blatantly.
"The store? That's a long walk, I don-"
"I need this!" the norsk raised his voice. Tom had never heard him speak like that and it prompted him to shut his mouth and follow the taller boy without another word.
Tord walked forward like a man on a mission. Hours prior he had been lying in bed, waiting for dinner to be served as he played games on his phone. He was trying to not think about anything, each thought leading to something that felt too painful to be pursued. In the distance, he could hear arguing. His tan walls were dimmed to a brown from the evening lighting. He turned up the volume on his phone to try and turn out his father's yelling but nothing could block them out. He wasn't sure why they yelled so much. He almost wished they'd get divorced already. Something sick within him, deep in his mind, wished that every time he heard them argue, it wasn't a thought he could run away from.
After several minutes he was called down to dinner by his dad Patryk who knocked kindly on the door and greeted his son with a sweet, yet pained smile. Tord walked to the kitchen table. His father, Paul, sat at the end of the table, a glass of whiskey in hand. The dinner was fairly silence, no one dared utter a word, all seemingly preoccupied with their train of thought. That was until the boy remembered what his coach had told him a week prior.
"Coach said I have to get gear for Football, so I was wondering if we could go to the store soon-," the teenager was abruptly cut off.
"Bruker vi ikke nok på deg?" Paul hissed, "You don't need this whole football thing."
"La ham være i fred! Det er bra at han finner sin plass på skolen!" Patryk spat back, "We can get you football gear, don't worry." The taller man with longer hair began picking up the empty plates calm;y before his husband slammed his hand on the table.
"Ingen!" He exclaimed, "No one listens to me in this damn house!"
"Hey that's not true, I just think-" Pat was quickly cut off.
Tord stood their silence as his parents began bickering in Norwegian. Suddenly Paul turned to him, practically throwing him a pack of cigarettes and a lighter and pointing to the door. "Kom deg ut!" He yelled and Tord didn't falter a second on following the demand, quickly leaving out through the front door.
He hated feeling like this, he hated feeling like he was a burden in his own home. He gripped the lighter in his pocket tightly as he began walking down the road, not even bothering to pull out a cigarette to numb his frustration. He kicked some pebbles on the road, mumbling about how much of a dick his dad was, how maybe if he didn't drink so much things would be better. About how when it boiled down to it it was all his Father, Paull's fault. He didn't understand how it was so hard for an adult to keep his behavior under control. He acted like a child; everything had to be his way and if it wasn't he'd throw a hissy fit. Tord's face flushed in anger as he continued walking. Who was he to treat everything like that? Who was he to walk over everyone as if they were just obstacles in his life, silencing everyone when they said something he didn't like, even if it was as simple as asking for supplies for football? Perhaps they'd have more money for what mattered if he didn't spend it all on cigarettes and whiskey.
"Why should I put up with this?" Tord thought, "What's the point of putting up with this every single day?"
Suddenly Tord thought something he had never thought before: "I Deserve better."
Suddenly the dam broke and the flood of anger he had been stock-piling for years broke free. He didn't deserve this, he deserved more than how his father was treating him and he didn't want to just sit there and accept it anymore. He didn't want to listen to Paul yell at Pat anymore, he wanted to be able to do something to defend his dad and himself but what is he to do?
Perhaps that's why he didn't think about it before; What is he to even do about it?
There was nothing he could do. As the initial anger died down he realized just how vulnerable and tired he was. He wished he had never tried to break free from the emotional cage he put himself in. At that moment he realized he didn't cage himself so he couldn't get out, but so that others couldn't get in. It was a painful realization and one he found out too late. His bones hurt with frustration, his chest ached with anger, his stomach churned from anxiety and his head felt empty, something adjacent to a brain freeze. He could no longer escape himself, he was all there, spiraling inside his head. Every angry, sad, or lost thought he ever heard floated through his head, taunting him. So he pulled out the cigarettes from his pocket and lit one, taking a long drag to try and numb what was hurting inside him.
He felt the need to change, stability felt like a punishment now. He needed to step out of what he once was but didn't know what to do. As the walked the sun had already set, a starless night above him. He hated the light pollution, he hated that he couldn't see the stars. If he let it go on he'd know he'd find a reasons to hate the entirety of the UK. Tord kicked a lamp post which hurt him more than the lamp. It only fed the fury that was brewing inside him. He took another drag from his cigarette, the smoking filling his lungs and making his head go fuzzy for a short moment after he exhaled. Just yesterday he had been asking himself how to get angry and now he was desperately trying to figure out how to calm down.
"Min Kjære," he mumbled under his breath.
Perhaps he should visit Tom's house.
Whenever Tord was around the Brit he felt his muscles melt into a relaxed sort of state he'd never experienced before, it was calming, blissful. He enjoyed the blonde's presence like no other and over the past month, he'd consider them close. Tord never thought about putting words to how he felt about Tom. To be fair, he hadn't thought about putting words to any of his feelings until today. For a moment he reckoned it was something he should think over before immediately deciding against it. That was the one thing where he still didn't know how he felt, so he could bask in the blissful ignorance for just a moment more. He wanted to enjoy the last bit of simplicity he may ever have towards his emotions. He thought it it as another thing that made Tom special.
The Norsk looked around, taking in his surroundings to see how far he was from his emo friends' house, realizing he had been walking in the complete opposite direction when he left the house. He couldn't blame himself. When he left he hadn't been planning on Going to Tom's house. He just wanted to wander the night, escape. Tord turned around, taking another drag on his cigarette and moving forward into the night as his mind wandered back to how he needed to change. He needed to alter himself one way or another, just for a break from routine. He wasn't as bold as Tom to get a piercing, his father would surely knock him out cold if he did, but he also didn't want it to be something as simple as a jewelry piece; he wanted it to be something that with identify him, something he always had on. Perhaps a haircut, but he wouldn't trust anyone with his hair other than a barber and he wanted instant gratification, plus, he liked his mullet.
The horn-haired boy continued pondering as he walked to the Brit's house, puffing his cigarette until it was out of tobacco and tossing the bud in the nearest trash. As he approached the black-eyed boy's block it hit him, what if he dyed his hair? Surely Tom would have experience with that, right? Perhaps it was borderline prejudiced to assume the Brit knew anything about dying hair just because he was on the emo spectrum, but that didn't change his bias. The ginger-brunette thought about knocking on the front door but remembered the events of yesterday, deciding not to, so instead he picked up some pebbles on the side of the sidewalk and began throwing them at Tom's window.
He threw one- no answer.
He threw another- No answer.
He threw another rock- no answer.
He had easily thrown at least 10 small pebbles by the time he finally decided to text the Brit. He looked up and saw the shorter boy leaning out his window.
"What are you doing here?" he asked. Tord said nothing and instead waved his hand, gesturing for the Brit to come downstairs. He half expected the blonde to sneak out his window, but instead, the window closed. The grey-eyed boy smiled to himself, thinking the scene was that similar to a movie. Soon the pierced boy walked out his front door to greet his foreign friend.
"C'mon, I have a mission for us," Tord said as he began walking down the sidewalk.
"What do you mean mission? Did your dad kick you out again?" Tom questioned, trying to catch up.
"We're going to the store," Tord, glancing at the sky only to remember there are no stars.
"The store? That's a long walk, I don-"
"I need this!" The Norsk yelled, glancing back at Tom who looked taken aback. The horn-haired boy quickly tried to calm himself and was ashamed of his anger seeping out the way it did. "I'm sorry, I mean, I've had a long day and there's something I wanna do, and I think it will help." The taller boy looked forward, his apology benign more as something he said out of courtesy rather than something he meant.
"So," The Brit said calmly, "The store is a long walk. You think I could have a cigarette to pass the time?" He asked with a sincere half smile, trying to brush off his friend's yelling although it was easier said than done. Without another word exchanged Tord reached into his pocket, pulling out a cigarette for himself and handing Tom the rest of the pack.
"Go at it," He said with a smile, lighting his own cigarette before handing the lighter to the shorter boy next to him.
The emo's face practically lit up as he was given the pack to keep, even if there were only 5 cigarettes left in there. He took one out of the pack and put the rest in his pocket, lighting the stick of tobacco, and taking a nice inhale before exhaling. Tom had tried serval different kinds of cigarettes but this brand was definitely one of the best. The tobacco didn't taste stale, but instead sweet and was warm hitting his throat instead of hot, borderline burning. He had always enjoyed the smell of cigarettes, even as a kid he found it pleasant. He glanced over at the taller boy next to him; a determined look was fixated on his face as they walked.
They traveled in silence, both boys huffing off their own cigarettes. The streetlights illuminated the sidewalk, casting shadows as they walked by. Tom had never bothered to really take in Tord's features before, but now in the dim lighting, his hollow eyes gravitated towards his face. No matter how much he looked away he always found his gaze back on the Norsks silhouette, dimly lit as he smoked his cigarette. Tord's lips were a tan pink and rested gently on the cigarette bud as he inhaled, using no more force than what was required. His jaw was angular, sharp, and peppered with freckles and acne that stretched up his cheeks across his tan skin. His break out was mild, it'd surely be gone if he just washed his face regularly and perhaps cleaned his pillowcase. His eyes were half-lidded, his brows furrowed and his grey eyes piercing as he looked forward, away from Tom. It was like his body was sculpted from marble, every feature sharp yet smooth. The Brit bit at his snakebites as he continued to examine the taller boy's features, in that moment he began to wonder why the Norsk wanted to change his appearance. He was never one to ask questions, however. As he looked at the boy walking next to him he couldn't help but think that everything about him was perfect. It was a passive thought, something he didn't put much mind to, more like a general observation, something that paced in the back of his mind with no words to describe it. Tom just knew he liked looking at Tord, at least when Tord wasn't looking at him.
The blonde boy took another long drag from his cigarette as he looked away, ignoring how his face flushed. The silence was heavy; not that there was tension necessarily but you could tell that the horn-haired boy was lost in thought as he finished his cigarette in a final long drag. He threw the bud in the ground and stomped it out. Tom wasn't sure if it was because there was no nearby trashcan or if it was because Tord had lost all regard for constantly doing the right thing. It was a sudden change like he was a different person, but at the same time, the Brit thought this version had always been there. It wasn't jarring or strange. It was different, but it didn't seem out of place. This was a part of him that had always been there, and Tom saw that. The way harsh comments had easily slipped out of his mouth, his competitive nature, and Tord finally breaking wasn't a surprise to him.
Tom stared at the ground, taking another small drag from his cigarette. He wanted to break the silence but he felt as though there was nothing to say. The Norsk next to him looked pensive, and he certainly didn't want to break his train of thought. His hands were shoved in the pockets of his red hoodie as he looked forward, determined to reach his destination. Tom's eyes had gravitated towards the Norsks's face again, gazing at him intently and unsure why. His throat felt dry and his stomach felt heavy, a feeling similar to nausea. The shorter boy chewed at the inside of his mouth, his braces scraping against the sensitive skin. As he drifted off staring at his friend he was brought back to reality by his cigarette burning his finger, causing him to quickly throw it down and stomp it out. The taller boy laughed.
"Forgot about it?" He said with a soft smile. His tone was heavy yet soft and Tom wasn't used to it.
"Yeah, I guess you could say that," the Brit said with a small laugh.
"Show me your fingers," Tord said blatantly and stopped walking, wanting to inspect the wound.
The short boy shrugged, "It's fine, it's not that bad," trying to downplay the sting on his skin.
Tord wasn't amused and raised a brow before taking Tom's hand, inspecting his index and middle finger. The skin was red and slightly raw, it was smoothed over from the burn melting the skin. The Brit winced slightly as Tord softly ran his thumb over it.
"You should run hot water over it in the bathroom when we get to the store. It should take the hurt away," the Norsk said, looking at Tom with his piercing grey eyes before turning back to walk down the sidewalk, the shorter boy silently following. They had been walking for 15 and were only around 5 minutes away. After the encounter, Tom felt more courage to talk.
"So.." he said apprehensively, "what color are you thinking of dying it?" He wanted to ask why Tord wanted to dye it in the first place but that was close enough.
"I'm not sure, I just want to change the color. I'll figure it out at the store."
The Brit hummed in response and there was a moment of silence before Tord spoke up.
"Do you ever feel like when you look in the mirror you don't recognize yourself?" He asked, looking down at the cracks in the sidewalk.
"Yes. All the time," Tom wanted to say. "Sure I guess, sometimes," he said instead.
The grey-eyed boy let out a small scoff, similar to a laugh, "I would have thought your piercings wouldn't have let you do that," he smiled, "I mean, aren't you always aware of them?"
"I wish that's how it worked." "Yeah, I guess, they help. But I wouldn't really consider them identifiers. I barely notice them really, you get used to them after a while," The pierced boy commented, explaining his experience. The Norsk nodded in understanding.
They didn't talk for the rest of the walk. Their steps filled the quiet night and soon they arrived at the store. The two walked through the automatic doors and the blonde began following Tord to the hair dye aisle who quickly ushered him away.
"You need to run your hand under hot water. There's a bathroom sign over there," he said pointing to a sign on the wall at the back of the store. The Brit just rolled his eyes and left while Tord scanned the hair products. The water burned his hands. The short boy had burnt himself before on accident so he understood that it helped but it didn't stop him from wincing as if it was on fire. The sting on his fingers radiated through his hand as he bit his lip and let the water run over it until it was numb, then dried his hands. Although he knew it would, Tom was almost upset that it worked. He hated when Tord gave him good advice, or when he was right at all for that matter. He assumed it stemmed from some sort of jealousy issue although he didn't struggle with this from anyone else.
Once his hands were dry Tom left the bathroom and joined the Norsk in the hair dye isle, easily locating him by his horn-like curls. The taller boy was holding a box of dark brown dye, almost black. He looked at the blonde as he heard him walk over.
"Do you think this color would look good?" He held up the box and looked at the boy in front of him. The Brit walked closer to inspect the color, glancing at the box and back to Tord, trying to imagine him with the color. He let out a hum.
"Your hair has an orange tint, so I think we should try this color with some toner," the Brit picked out another color and searched the shelves, finding a color neutralizer and picking it off the shelves. The taller boy smiled softly, knowing that Tom would be a great help. He took the boxes from Tom's hands and began walking to the cash register. For a moment the black-eyed boy wanted to ask how they were going to pay but Tord pulled out his wallet and paid, taking the bag the cashier handed him along with the receipt. He nodded his head, gesturing towards the door, and the two left.
The walk back to Tom's house was just as silent as the walk there. It was silent other than their footsteps and the faint crumpling of the bag in Tord's hand. Eventually, they arrived at Tom's house and the blonde told his friend to wait, slowly opening the door to check on his mom, finding her asleep on the couch.
"Okay, come on," he said, walking so that his footsteps were silent and slowly closed the door. "Be quiet. My mom is asleep," he whispered, the horn-haired boy nodding in response and following him upstairs to the bathroom on the second floor. The Brit rolled an office chair from his room into the bathroom in front of the mirror and gestured for Tord to sit down.
"When was the last time you washed your hair?" The emo asked.
"Yesterday night," the Norsk said, sounding a bit unsure.
"Good, the shampoo would have messed with the coloring," Tom said as he picked up the box of toner, looking over the instructions. "We're gonna wet your hair in the sink first. Small warning, I am not going to bother warming it for you," he said plainly as he turned the office chair around and leaned Tord's head back into the sink, turning on the water and running his fingers through his hair, wetting it thoroughly. The taller boy shivered from the temperature, wanting to jolt up but the short boy didn't let him.
"Hey, that's cold!" He exclaimed.
"Well I fucking told you it would be," the blonde responded, not even entertaining the idea of sympathy as he continued to run his fingers through his friend's hair, cupping his hand to bring water to his bangs. He gently massaged the ginger-brunette's scalp, making sure all of his hair was thoroughly damp. The shorter boy wore a resting bitch face, unsure of why he was growing tense and confused the feeling with irritation as his face flushed slightly. Tord however was fighting the urge to lean into Tom's touch, his hands against his scalp soothing him, making him want to melt.
When Tom was sure all of the taller boy's hair was wet he turned off the faucet and got a towel from the drawer, drying it until it was damp. The pierced boy then opened the box of toner and pulled on the gloves provided, shaking the bottle before biting off the plastic cork on the nozzle. He ran his fingers through his friend's hair a couple of times before parting it, his loose curls being a pain to work with and his horn-like cow licks refusing to lay flat. He began squeezing the solution directly onto Tord's hair, rubbing it through the fine strands and beginning to coat his head.
"How did you learn how to do this?" The Norsk asked, trying to fill the silence.
The Brit just shrugged, "Watched some videos," he responded plainly and continued thoroughly coating his hair, not hesitating to turn the taller's head as needed. Once he was sure his friend's hair was thoroughly coated he washed the gloves and pulled them off.
"We have to let it sit for 15 minutes, and then we're going to wash it out and throw on the dye," he stated nonchalantly.
"Really? This stuff is fucking itchy," Tord hissed, resting the urge to scratch his head.
"Yeah, don't touch it, I'll set a timer," Tom said, rolling his eyes as he pulled out his phone to set a 15-minute timer.
The two sat in the bathroom scrolling on their phones as they waited for the timer to go off. Tord thought about the feeling of Tom's hands running through his hair and how it sent chills down his spine, or perhaps it was just the cold water. He continued scrolling trying to push those thoughts away. He didn't understand how Tom seemed so unbothered by it as if he was completely disconnected from the experience. The shorter boy across from him was scrolling with a straight face; he barely smiled, barely laughed, and he wasn't entirely sure how he lived like that.
There wasn't a word exchanged until the alarm went off, Tom quickly turned it off and told Tord to sit back in the chair. The emo turned the chair so his friend's head rested in the sink. The Brit pulled the gloves back on and turned on the faucet again, the cold water hitting the grey-eyed boy's scalp once more as the toner began to get washed out of his hair which was now a solid brown color, similar to Tom's mother's.
This took longer than the first washing. Tom was meticulous as he ran his fingers through the boy's hair, moving his head to lean further back by his jaw. The Brit's face was expressionless as he did this while Tord fought a flush creeping on his face. The boy sitting in the chair bit the inside of his cheek softly, trying to push away the fluttering feeling in his stomach and chest as the toner was washed out of his hair with nimble fingers.
By the time it was completely washed out his neck hurt from having it leaned over the counter into the sink. A towel was thrown into his lap as the chair spun around.
"Dry your hair, after that we'll dye it," The boy with braces said followed by a soft yawn. It was growing late into the night and they had school tomorrow. Tom knew he'd hate himself in the morning for being up so late, but something about this felt worth it.
Tord took the towel and dried his hair for a few minutes and by the time he was done, his hair was damp. Tom opened the bow of hair dye and adjusted the gloves that were still on his hands. He bit off the plastic stopper for the developer before twisting off the cap, then took another smaller brown container from the box and shook it for a moment before screwing off the top and pouring it into the developer, the liquid was clear at first but quickly turning brown as it came in contact with the white developer in the activator bottle. He screwed the top back on and put his index finger over the top of the nozzle as he shook it, mixing the color as he did so.
Once the color was well mixed he began squeezing the dye onto Tord's hair, the color intensifying as he was applying it. He ran his fingers through the other's hair multiple times, making sure to get the right angle as he applied more, not wanting to miss any spots. He applied more dye onto the Norsk's hair, pushing his head down as he did so to make sure he got the bottom frays of his mullet-like hair cut. Tord was grateful Tom couldn't see his face because there was no denying how read he was. The longer his hands massaged his scalp, the harder it was to not think about it. Perhaps he was just touch starved, and this is the repercussions of that. He didn't want to believe it was because specifically, Tom was touching his hair, but rather because someone was touching his hair in general, considering the fact he doesn't receive physical affection often– any affection for that matter.
When Tom was done he washed the gloves and pulled them off before spinning the chair around.
"Now we leave it to cure for 45 minutes," he said plainly, "Wanna play Minecraft or something while we wait?" The Brit smiled. It was hard to stay composed with the way the taller boy's hair was slicked back. The boy began to stand up before the emo quickly pushed him back down. "Wait I almost forgot." He opened a drawer and pulled out a box of cotton swabs. He applied a small dot of dye to the Q-tip. "Stay still," he ordered as he leaned in close to his friend's face, holding his head still with his hand as he applied dye to his eye right eyebrow, coating it thoroughly before applying dye to the other side of the Q-tip and doing his other eyebrow. It took Tord everything in him to not start shaking; he could practically feel Tom's breath on him as he applied the dye to his eyebrows. His gaze was fixated and unchanging, you could tell he was focused.
After a moment the pierced boy pulled away, "Now we're done." He said, almost like he was proud of himself.
The Norsk stood up with a heavy breath, the dye tingled against his scalp faintly and although it was bearable, it wasn't the most pleasant feeling.
"Alright, want to play Minecraft now?" The Brit asked, barely looking at the other boy in the bathroom who nodded.
"Yeah, sure."
The two continued where they left off in their Minecraft world. Tord spawned next to the nether portal while Tom was in their base, several diamonds among other ores in his inventory. The boy with dye curing in his hair passed through the nether portal back into the overworld and quickly went to work decorating the nether room since he now had some of the materials to make it at least somewhat aesthetically pleasing; the only thing he was missing was wood and vines from the nether forest. The two did minor maintenance before deciding to sail off from the island to try and find a village. They traveled for what felt like thousands of blocks, digging small holes in the ground to sleep for the night before carrying on forward. They traveled through multiple biomes and began to bicker about where they should go, now accompanied by several dogs of different breeds. By the time they even found a village Tom realized he hadn't set an alarm but judging by the fact that the hair dye seemed dried they assumed it had been long enough.
"You should just shower this time," Tom said, logging out of the world, Tord following.
"Why didn't I just shower every time we needed to wash my hair?" The Norsk raised a brow confused.
The Brit just shrugged, "Didn't want my mom to hear the shower turn on like 5 times."
The taller boy made an "oh" expression and made his way to the bathroom.
"Oh by the way, in the dye box there's a conditioner packet, shampoo your hair and then use that," he instructed, then heard the bathroom door close.
He closed and locked the door, pondering for a moment how he was going to take off his hoodie and shirt without getting dye on it before deciding to just do it. Luckily because it was dry none came off. The boy looked at himself in the mirror for a moment, the color change was harsh to the memory of his reflection, but he knew he'd grow used to it, the color wasn't bad after all. He turned on the shower and waited for the water to warm as he took off the rest of his clothes, placing them on the counter.
When she stepped into the shower he couldn't help but think about how this was the very place Tom showered, as he looked at the products on the corner of the Bathtub he thought about how those were the soaps he used, and now he'd be using them.
As the water ran through his hair he could see the dye alter the color of the water. When he ran his hands through his hair the product felt smooth and silky in his hair before his hair became dry. He reached out of the shower past the curtain to get the conditioner packet off the counter and put it on the corner of the tub before he picked up the bottle of two-in-one, taking a glance at it before pouring a bit in his hands. It was Cedar wood, and now that he knew what shampoo and body wash Tom used he was sure he'd now be able to recognize the smell on him. Tord rubbed his hands together before running his fingers through his hair, feeling the soap suds build up as he massaged his scalp; and for a moment he imagined it was Tom washing his hair. He paused and bit his tongue, his face flushing. Today was just another example of how although the Brit had a rough exterior, he'd always be there to help him. Tord wondered if he'd do the same for other people, and for a moment thought no, before coming to the conclusion he had no one else to do things like this for. The grey-eyed boy smiled; that made no difference, whether their relationship was unique because Tom treated him differently, or whether Tom treated him differently because there was no one like the Norsk. He didn't care, it didn't change the fact being that Tom did things with him that he didn't do with anyone else.
He ran his fingers through his hair with a shakey breath and opened his eyes, not knowing when he closed him. As he looked down at the water he realized the color stopped bleeding into the water but was still hay-dry, so he took the condition packet and tore it open with his teeth before squirting some on his hands and rubbing them together, following a similar process as he did with the two-in-one and ran his fingers through his hair, making sure it coated everything and hoping it was rehydrated his hair. He massaged his scalp and leaned into the water, warm against his skin. It was soothing and helped his muscles relax which frankly, he needed after all that walking. Although it was strange it shower in someone else's house, he tried not to think about it and instead focused on how nice the water felt flowing through his hair and down his back.
Soon the condition was completely washed out and Tord turned off the water, stepping on the towel placed in front of the shower and taking the towel that was draped over the office chair that was still in the bathroom. He dried his curly, now brown hair first and then the rest of his body. His hair was noticeably a different texture but didn't feel as dead as it did in the shower before the conditioner. Once his hair and upper body was dry, he wrapped the towel around his waist and almost pulled on his shirt, realizing more dye than he thought got on it, his light grey shirt now having brown dye stains on the inside around his collar. He bit the inside of his mouth for a moment before drying the lower half of his body and pulling on his boxers and pants, leaving his shirt and hoodie as they were on the counter. Technically he could still wear his shirt but getting dirty right after a shower is something no one ever wants to do, so instead he walks out of the bathroom with no shirt, assuming it would be fine since they change around each other every day in gym class.
Tord left the bathroom and stood by Tom's doorway for a moment before speaking up: "Hey, my shirt got some dye on it, do you have something I can wear?" He asked, Tom turning around as he heard the Norse speak. If the emo was checking him out he wouldn't be able to tell, his black orbs for eyes unchanging, never revealing which direction he was looking. His face remains neutral, his poker face immaculate.
"Yeah I should have something," He said as he walked across his room and began to dig through his closet, finding an old, dark grey t-shirt with sports cars on it that used to belong to his dad along with some pajama pants that no longer fit, not because he grew, but rather because he had lost the baby fat weight he carried at 13. He tossed them at Tord who caught them and looked puzzled.
"Why did you give me pants too?" He asked, his accent thicker than usual, it was always thicker when he asked questions.
"Dude, it's 1-fucking-A.M. Do you really plan on walking home right now?" The Brit said blatantly before turning back to his phone. The dark-brunette thought about it, and Tom was right. He didn't want to walk all the way home right now, and judging by the lack of texts from his dads, they wouldn't care if he didn't come back until early in the morning. He left back to the bathroom and closed the door, locking it. He pulled on the shirt before changing into the pajama bottoms Tom had given him. He bit his lip nervously as he folded the towels in the bathroom. Although they had been hanging out a little over a month, the two hadn't had a sleepover yet and he wasn't sure why it made him nervous. He convinced himself it was because he didn't plan it with his dads, but deep down he knew it wasn't true. He folded his clothes and put them on the office chair before opening the door and rolling it back to Tom's room, turning off the light as he left the bathroom.
The emo glanced at Tord as he entered the room. His face was deadpan but his eyes were fixated on him; he couldn't deny that the Norsk looked good wearing his clothes. He resisted the urge to bite at his snakebites and instead looked back towards his TV and yawned.
"Do you wanna watch something?" The blonde asked, trying to distract himself.
Tord wasn't tired, mostly because he didn't think about it but he could see how fatigued the short boy was and shook his head. "We should probably just go to bed, we have school tomorrow," he stated plainly.
"Yeah, yeah you're probably right," Tom said, "Are you okay with sleeping with the TV on? It helps me sleep." it wasn't a complete lie, sometimes it did help him fall asleep but tonight he wanted it on to distract himself from the company that would be in his room.
"Yeah I don't mind," the brunette said, "Where am I going to sleep though? I can sleep on the floor or something or in the chair-"
"The Bloody Hell are you saying?" Tom raised a brow, "I have a queen-sized mattress. There's no way you're sleeping on the floor," He walked back over to his closet and pulled out some pajamas for himself, a grey t-shirt that said "Ska" on it, and black and grey plaid pajama bottoms. "Just put something on, YouTube, a movie, I'll be right back," The shorter boy said walking to the bathroom and shutting the door.
He gripped the counter for a moment and refused to look at himself in the mirror. He looked at his hands; they were dotted with dye stains. Seeing the stains made his stomach churn, like now there was irrefutable evidence of him and Tord being friends. He wasn't sure why he felt embarrassed, or maybe ashamed, but it felt strange to have a reminder like that, knowing that for the next week there with be proof that he died the Norsk's hair on his hands. He changed into the pajamas and walked back into his room with his day clothes draped over his arm, which he tossed onto the office chair with Tord's clothes.
The brunette was sitting rather tense on the bed with blue sheets and a checkered throw blanket. Tom walked around to the other side of the bed and laid back, letting out a deep breath that turned into a yawn. "What are you thinking of putting on?" Tom asked.
Tord scratched the back of his neck nervously, "We'll, I was going to put on some YouTube, but all of the YouTubers I watch speak Norwegian," He said with a half smile.
Tom waved his hand dismissively. "Put whatever on. I'm not even going to be awake to watch it," he said as he began crawling under his blankets and pulling a pillow under his head with another small yawn. "I just like the noise."
The brunette nodded softly, watching as Tom curled up in a sleeping position next to him but facing away. It made him grow nervous, and he shifted to try and get more comfortable, leaning against the headboard. He went through YouTube to find the channel he was previously looking at—his favorite channel—and put on the newest upload. The sound filled the room and before the Brit could even ask Tord turned off the light.
The taller boy adjusted his position again, laying down more with his head elevated as he watched the TV, the boy next to him already fast asleep. He wasn't sure how he could fall asleep so quickly but he was jealous. Anxiety brewed in his throat and after two videos he realized that watching the videos was just feeding the problem, so he turned over– away from Tom– and closed his eyes trying to sleep. In that moment he realized how truly tired he was, and how he was grateful his friend asked for the TV to be on, considering it helped eliminate that awkward silence people often shared right before falling asleep. Once the Norsk actually put in the effort, he found himself drifting away to slumber in seconds.