Shouldn't Have [TomTord]

Chapter Nineteen

"So, where did you get that cigarette?" It's been a couple long minutes of pure awkward silence and Tom is having a hard time dealing with that. The drive is taking forever to get through and he's still not entirely sure where their next stop is going to be. Probably not somewhere dark, if Tord's fear is still apparent.

There's a pause before the answer, Tord still looking through the side window and watching everything go by, "A hobo gave it to me."

"Holy shit, Tord?!" Tom nearly veered them out the side of the road upon hearing that, "What the hell?! That cigarette could've been laced with drugs or acid!"

"Then it would've given me a better time." Tord turned his head to give a cheeky smile, his teeth lighting up the car and nearly blinding Tom. "But, relax. I didn't actually. I bought it from a corner store."

"Those exist in that street? And are open at this time?"

"You'd be surprised."

It's strange how, earlier that night, Tord had claimed that he hated Tom, but now it's seems as if their banters are close to being one that friend's would have. It's also strange how Tord flashed that smile, almost as if he was actually amused with Tom's reaction. And now it's more strange how Tom reacted in a way that other's would confuse with concern. The case is, in fact, that he was not concerned at all. He just didn't want Tord to foam up and have to explain to Edd how the bastard died under his watch. Good luck getting out of that one, alternate-scenario-Tom.

They had gotten themselves in another awkward and tense silence, both looking through the windows with different purposes. Tord was drumming his fingers against the side of the car door, which only led to Tom's anxious feelings to rise up in the base of his throat.

Oh no.

No, no, no.

It isn't a petal. It cannot be a petal. Not now, not now when he was alone with Tord in the middle of the night with no where to hide. He can't just pull over and vomit up petals, can he? No, he cannot; Tord will ask questions and be freaking out how Tom's bile is basically a garden.

Swallowing down the lump that's forming in his throat, Tom continues on driving and listening to the anxiety-filled taps of Tord's fingers against the door. He doesn't dare speak up and tell him to stop. There's no use in showing weakness.

There's still a lingering feeling of pain at the base of his threat, but he continuously swallows every so often as he turns corners and drives through a lit up highway. It isn't until a couple long minutes of driving when the silence is broken by the voice of a Norwegian accent, thickly laced in stress and uttering a small and childish phrase: "I'm hungry."

Wordlessly, they agree on going to a nearby McDonalds.

They don't take long going through the drive-through, only quietly whispering to each other on what they'll have. Tom just ordered a drink, being that the only thing he wanted was something to dissolve the flowers that are progressively pushing themselves up his throat. Tord, on the other hand, asked for a whole meal, completed with a burger, drink, and fries. Truthfully, the eyeless male feels as though Tord hasn't eaten in awhile, hence his large appetite - or perhaps he, himself, hasn't eaten much and the fact that Tord eats a lot is bothersome in a way.

Yeah, the second thing sounds plausible, but it's too late to order a meal for himself as he drives to the station to pay and collect their food.

"Can I have some of your food?" Tom asks as he digs around in his wallet absently.

"Not too much." And that's it. Tom finally gets food after only having Smirnoff and petals and occasional snacks for the past while.

The teen working the station is naive and kind, handing them their bags and drinks as he rings up their total price and gives them change. He happily says a "Thank you for coming!" In a tone that suggests that he might be under watch by the manager. It's far too late for a happy and healthy teenager to be working, but let's just assume that McDonalds pulls this kind of crap during the summer.