Worn out curtains drag lazily across the floor, barely gracing the rug's fibers. An open window taunted mother nature and practically invited the chilly autumn breeze that slips past the edge.
A ghost of a whisp graces skin, twirling and taunting under linen and cloth. The cold roused the Brit and did little to soothe the growing rattle in his head.
Tom's aching limbs did not particularly like the whole idea of being dragged under him. They especially did not appreciate his whole weight leaning on them. His arms now exposed to the moving aur in his room, Tom suddenly became hyper aware of cold snaking down his bare arms. If his head were more clear he could've sworn he heard it talk too.
Hauling himself up Tom felt the headache press to the front of his skull, colours swirl in front of unfocused eyes. The light jabs at them, laughing at his every wince and move of discomfort.
Memories of last night fail him, but the weight of bottles on his sheets gives a hint to what his escapades the previous night might've brought him. All in all he was in no mood to look the mess in the eye, rather opting to expose skin to air.
Tom soon came to regret this decision however. Mother nature is a bitch after all, and nippy cold just seems like a fitting punishment for forgetting his window open. Not like he was in any state to close it in the first place, judging by the many empty Smirnoff bottles littered about.
Jell-o-fied legs balance his weight like broken 6 inch heels, despite all odds he does manage to fish some clothing from his bedroom floor. A sniff test deeming them acceptable.
Tom let his mind wander to the few memeories from the night before. They haunt him, each just out of reach, never to be grasped or handled.
Vans connect with linoleum flooring once Tom arrives in the house's shared kitchen, half expecting to see someone up despite it being early in the morning. As expected a figure's shadow is illuminated by the early rays of Autumn sunshine. Tom pays it no mind, merely fixing himself a cup of cold coffee, water replaced by smirnoff.
"Drinking so early, Witness?" A lazy voice pipes up from the side.
Tom cringed at the sound, absolutely despising the communist's voice, but all too grateful they're both too sleep deprived to pitch an argument.
"As someone wise once said, you can't be hung over if you're still drunk." The Norwegian scoffs at Tom's broken logic.
Tom could feel Tord's grey eyes trained on the back of his head. If he had to describe the feeling it would be that he oh so desperately wants to acquaint the other's face with something a little more dense than his own skull. Lucky for the other two residents Tom's too sluggish to do so.
Moments tick by, the two insomniacs standing on in silence, each with a cup of..a cup of something. Tord puffs on his cigar. A smirk graces Tom's face, "Smoking so early in the morning, Commie?"
"Oh fuck off, you freak of nature." Tord retorts, eyes hardening.
"Weeb piece of shit." The eyeless man growls in return.
The taller's hands move to set his cup and cancer stick down, his flamingo length legs gracefully carrying his body to Tom, the Brit too calm for someone with a death wish.
A hand connects with the countertop beside Tom, the other yanking at his hoodie with no mercy. A trickle of sweat races down Tom's still grinning face, but as his calculations predicted Edd came downstairs.
"Tom, Tord, what are you two doing up at this bloody time?" His accent thickens with morning sleep. Swampy green eyes flick to the wall clock for reassurance, "It's 4:30 am. Please tell me you at least got some sleep."
The eyeless drunk lets out an audible grumble, not too happy about the mini lecture.
"Nei." The communist dryly replies all while knowing Tom won this fight with timing and backup from their mutual friend.
The alcoholic's ears perk at the blunt answer, internal butterflies and sparks fill his arteries at the confirmation of his victory.
Tom's always been a proper Brit when it's come to his absolute stubborn nature, especially a challenge and even more so if it's from the much hated Norwegian.
The butterflies burst from his veins to his heart and head, rendering him dizzy with a giddy triumph once Tord turns tail and leaves.
Edd stands thoroughly confused, Tom presumes he blames the other's departure on himself, thus on the walk by Tom gave the cola fanatic a pat on the shoulder and a nudge to the bedroom.
"Go to bed, Edd. You look exhausted."
"Tom-" Edd's eyes widen as he notices something, something off, "-Tom..are you drinking..this early?"
A groan presents itself to Edd, "You sound like Tooord!" Tom whines with a gulp of his abomination drink.
"I..don't have the brainpower to argue that right now. Just get some sleep, ok? I'm heading back to bed." Edd waves off, his form melting back into the darkness of the house.
Tom's all alone again. He's never minded being alone. If you're alone you'd never suffer betrayel, his mother once said, granted before she...
Guilt shivers and wiggle up Tom's throat like dirty, cold bile. It takes strength to swallow it down, bottle the rampant emotions into snall bottles. Tom knows he can't let himself feel much, it'll just lead to hurt and betrayal like most of his past acquaintances have been kind enough to show him. Honestly he hopes they burn in hell.
Thoughts of highschool skip around his brain, body on autopilot. Once he comes to his surroundings are that of the living room, discarded cup nestled dangerously between some pillows, easily forgotten. He wonders how he got there, but his brain is just so exhausted from the clear lack of sleep and copious amounts of alcohol.
His tired body relaxes into the pillows, that is until a weight dips the material to his side. Tom doesn't need to look to know who it is. Tord scoffs at the TV, obviously quite bored in these early hours.
"You watch this shit?" Tord complains, picking at his nails.
"No." Tom's eyes stare blankly at the screen painted in colour.
"Then give me the remote-"
"Fat chance." Tom deadpans, grip tightening around the remote.
"You little-" Tord is quick to react, springing onto Tom and knocking the Brit off the safe haven of pillows and comfort.
They hit the ground. Tord holds his position on the top, straddling the other as his fists connect with face. Tom pushes against the Norwegian, hands flail to stop the punches.
Matching Tord somewhat in side he manages to flip them over, the momentum causing them to roll and Tord to hit is vack against a neatby book case.
"You're a fucking nuisance, you drunkard bitch!" Tord spits to Tom, venom costing his words in its slimy texture. "You're a mistake, a failure! Can't you just hurry up and destroy your organs already!?'
Tom slams the other down once more, this time by the collar of Tord's pajama shirt. He opens his mouth to speak before shattered porcelain sprays onto his hands, red hot blood coating his skin in a spray. Everything slows down.
Pain blooms on the back of Tom's head along with warmth. It drags his conscious mind to a safe haven of darkness and he could barely hear Tord's panic or the steady thump of feet on carpet.
Darkness swallows what little consciousness Tom has left.
YOU ARE READING
Addiction
FanficTom's never needed anyone, never will. He's always been alone, even with Edd and Matt in the picture. Adult life is very similar to his early highschool years, just with alot more alcohol. When his drinking gets to a dangerous degree however, and a...
