Kismet - [Eddsworld]

--1--

"The hell...?"

 Tom lifted his head up, instant regret hitting him as he let his head drop back down onto the tattered and ripped couch cushion like a dead-weight, a loud and exasperated groan tumbling lazily out of his mouth.

His blue checkered dress shirt looked more worn than ever, slipping down his shoulders where it ripped, unbuttoned and possessing the heavily revolting smell of vodka. 

A moment of thought and pure concentration dawned upon Tom, a dreary smile creeping onto his dry and chapped lips.

There must have been another party. His favorite things the world had to offer. Certainly better than the invention of beverages designed to keep a person sober. 

With a drowsy sigh, Tom managed to lift himself up from the couch cushion, sluggishly rolling into the floor. His wrinkled shirt slipped further down his shoulder as he hit the ground with a grunt. His head pulsed with a growing migraine, fitting for the hangover climbing its way to him. 

Tom lay slumped on the floor for what seemed like decades, until he finally told himself, "I'm going to move" and lazily dragged himself to his feet, where his brain felt like mush and his legs felt the same; mushy and useless. 

And with a mighty and forced heave, he at last stumbled into the kitchen, ignoring the mess around him. If he weren't settled on the feeling of death, he might have taken notice to the broken glasses and stained floors- and might have even felt lucky there were no stray clothes littering the ground.

Tom shuffled over to the kitchen counter and tilted his chin upwards to the cupboard above him. As he reached up and threw open the cupboard, he let out another sigh, only now it became an agitated one. Of course there wasn't any liquor left. He'd have to go out and get some more; might be a good risk to take, leaving the house for once. 

 "It's going to be a while before I have another party..." Tom mumbled to himself, rubbing his forehead as a pathetic attempt to ease his migraine. 

To get things straight, Tom hated being sober. Hated it more than anything else. Ever since he 'graduated' high school and found out that alcohol was a thing, he always went to the college parties people would hold, and of course hold some himself. It was as if he felt so much more at home when he lifted his bottle of Smirnoff and knew he wouldn't remember whatever happened in the next five to seven hours. And he didn't. Which was why waking up from his drunken state was the worst part.

Tom groaned and shut the cupboard, sluggishly moving over to the kitchen table to grab his cell phone from the surface, lazily picking it up and examining its cracked screen before tapping the power button once. He mentally reminded himself not to make the screen brightness so- horribly bright- as he immediately shielded his eyes when the screen lit up.

After recovering from the sudden light, he rested his thumb on the screen, tempted to unlock the device, although his vision focused on the background of his lock screen. 

The picture showed three men, one strikingly tall with ginger hair whose smile seemed to consume the entirety of his freckled face, and the other being shorter, with caramel brown hair that stuck up like horns utop his head; he, on the other hand, wore a subtle smirk. And between them was Tom, looking more agitated than he could ever be, hands covering his face from the camera but not enough to where his face was still visible. As Tom's vision slowly began to function properly, he chuckled at himself. Then he looked down at the edge of the photo, where the screen told him 'to swipe to unlock'. At the bottom of the image was the taker of the photo, better visualized as a brunet with messy brown hair that covered his eyes and a bright smile, fingers up in a peace sign as his friends in the background expressed themselves.