Crimson Red-A TomTord Fanfic

Falling For You

Chapter: 8

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Tom's POV

I wake up screaming, and I've wet the bed.

Ok, don't laugh. It's not funny. I'm serious.

I look down, purple goop staining the white covers. I feel the moist mattress underneath me and frown, not noticing it isn't even my bed until I look up and realise I'm in a strange room that I remember. 

It's where I first met Tord yesterday, I say to myself, remembering the night in the alley, how I wanted to rip his guts out. The rage that powered me then fills me, and I look around the room, taking off the covers and sitting up, not moving any further, despite the uncomfortable wetness that hangs onto me.

I see him, black hood up, covering the scars I remember so well from last night. He's trying not to laugh. 

"What are you laughing about?" My face is hard, but he keeps smiling and looking at me. "I'm wet and so is the bed." It comes out plainly.

"Ugh, yeah, that's kind of what happens when people don't go to the bathroom in the bathroom but in the bed," he sighs although his smile widens.

"Hey, it wasn't me, okay. It's goo. Stop being so annoying, and who do you think you are, bringing me here and treating me like a child?" My voice is loud and coarse.

"Calm down," his smile fades. "you were already here. We both materialised here after last night." He sounds nervous. 

"What do you mean?" I'm standing now, eyes never leaving his form.

"I mean that I awoke on the floor, and you were there, too. It was like midnight. So I just put you to bed and fell asleep not long after. It was no use bringing you back home. Plus, you looked tired. I thought it'd be better to let you sleep and gain your rest." He's grinning now. Looking at my chest.

"What," I ask, moving to look down. I'm wearing a red hoodie, now marked with purple in various places. One arm is ripped near the shoulder. I recognise this hoodie.

His hoodie. Anger fills me and my body screams for me to rip it off.

I clutch it between my fingers and yank it over my head. But underneath, I have nothing, and my bare chest is showing. Tord is in the corner laughing the whole time. 

"How dare you!"

I catch him looking at me, face serious, eyes studying. 

"Tor-"

"I'll get you a shirt," he says quickly, getting up and opening a drawer. He seems uncomfortable, but I feel worse and more exposed; maybe because I am the one without a shirt.

He tosses me a grey shirt, like the ones he always wears. Surprised, I'm almost short of catching it.

"No way, I am not wearing one of your  shirts!"

"Relax, it's not dirty or anything." He sits back down, not at all concerned about me. But still, he keeps looking at my pale bare chest. 

"Why are you looking at me, are you gay or something?" As soon as the words leave my mouth, I'm regretting them. His face becomes solemn, and immediately, obediently, he snaps his head down and blurts out, "I'm sorry."

"Sure you are. Where's my shirt?" 

He points to a piece of clothing crumpled on the floor; my ASDF shirt. "Huh. What about my hoodie?"

His face is burning, I can sense it. Reluctantly, I know, he points to the small couch that sits parallel to the bed. The peach-colored blanket is messed up as if someone had slept there recently. On the cushion, my blue sweater, wrinkled and creased, stares back at me.

"Wha-"

"D-don't you remember? You let me borrow it." He seems so embarrassed, I've never seen him this tense.

I did?

My memory seems to be confined, and I feel as though I can only remember fragments of the night.

"I thought it was a dream," I say, more to myself than anybody else. 

But he hears. "It wasn't."

I put the shirt on without complaints.

"Now what," I ask, feeling weird. "And you'd better have all my stuff washed, just for the record. That's my favourite shirt, ya know."

He shrugs, adjusting his hoodie.

"I saw it already," I say, remembering his scarred face, made worse by my claws. I'm sorry, I think, but I decide to keep my mouth shut and not soften up to him. My face hardens.

"Saw what?"

He's playing with me.

"Really, commie? Don't fool around, I saw your bloody face! The scars."

"Oh, I was hoping you wouldn't remember."

A knock on the door makes us both jump.

"Hey, anyone in there? Tom? Tord?" We both recognise that voice.

Matt keeps knocking impatiently.

"He never had much patience," I whisper. Tord smiles, which makes me smile, too.

He goes to the door, opens it, and says, "Hey, Matt," as casually as if nothing weird had just happened the night before.

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