Strawberry Panic {TomTord}

(☭ ͜ʖ ☭)

"Yeah, you would like that, wouldn't you?" Snorting harshly, Tord rolled his eyes, shuffling from side to side on the table as he settled down.

"I would," Tom muttered, a tad too loudly.

Grunted and filled with outward snark, the remark obviously wasn't aimed at him- but his response couldn't be more genuine, even if he tried. Deep down from his core, it physically upset him of the obvious pain and mental strain Tord was putting up with- virtually alone, and unguided as he was.

Between his long episodes of explosive silence, they had been randomly dispersed by the short stretches of suffocating, sad silences that radiated from his being. During these periods of barely repressed misery, Tord distanced himself from any type of simple comfort. Isolating himself from the ones that were closest to him- he clammed up, emotions muted, and eyes dead, going through the motions of life, despite having no passion for the actions themselves.

Appetite decreased, his willingness to talk openly had regressed into a rare event- sometimes going out of his way in order to avoid social interaction, glazed gaze refusing eye contact, and lips bowed into a permanent frown.

Mirrors had been covered up- at first, Tom had thought that it had been for his benefit; a touching notion that he had been unnecessarily bitter about after his incident in the hospital wing. However, as time dragged on, and patterns of behaviour started to emerge, he realised very quickly that it was a lot personal in nature.

Perhaps it was out of a sense of shame, or maybe self-loathing- hating the way that his back hunched, and hips shifted, body unused to the heavy addition it was burdened with. It lacked moment- hanging useless and limp from its socket, a dead weight that inhibited him, more than helped.

Tom hated it.

Tom hated the way it mirrored his own self-loathing behaviour.

Tom hated the echoes of the past that would bubble up from his gut every time he saw those forlorn features.

But most of all, he reasoned, Tom hated the way Tord outwardly blocked him out; covering his sense of justified worry underneath a cold, uncaring attitude and bitter words.

It wasn't fair.

Especially not after the whole speech Tord had unleashed on him, selflessly offering unwavering support and kindness even when he had been fresh out of surgery, weak and delirious from painkillers, but still having the right of mind to comfort him nonetheless. By isolating himself, and cutting off contact, he had signalled that this support system didn't go both ways- it was a two-sided mirror; only one was supposed to reap the benefits, and that wasn't Tord, apparently.

Did he think it was below him? Too good for that?

Tom didn't know and he certainly didn't complain- not that he had the right to, anyway, he had caused the mess in the first place.

One thing was for certain; that despite his copious flashbacks and building anxiety, he much preferred the angry, vengeful Tord that everyone else saw. As bad as that made him sound, it reminded Tom of the hidden emotion lurking within, bound tight and thrashing for release- the reinforcement that the man he had fallen in love with still lingered somewhere within the lifeless disguise.

Perhaps if he was there to cheer the other man on, and to congratulate him on his progress, Tord would realise that the vision of himself that he had built up in his head still existed- that he was every bit of the same person he had always been.

Making himself busy, Mcintyre readied his clipboard, pen hovering just above the paper as he fiddled distractingly with the wires that fed into the machine. Clearing his throat, he tapped the screen, a glass-like clinking noise erupting from the motion as he dared to look up, "Sir?"