TomTord oneshots

money issues

Tom sat on the kitchen chair with his head in his hands. Papers scattered across the table. A gray shirt laid on his shoulders, alcohol stains littering the material. His eyes were closed as he just sat there, tears slipping out of his eyes at a steady pace. They fell on top of the counter, the lights at a mid-way. The microwave clock read '1:31am'.

Suddenly, the lights were full blast. Tom jumped, startled, whipping his head around to the doorway.

Tord.

The Norwegian blinked, shifting to lean on the doorway. "What are you doing up so late?"

Tom took a glance at the papers in front of him. "I could ask the same of you." He sniffed, rubbing his arms. His hands were far warmer than his bare arms.

Tord took a few steps forward, watching as Tom flinched. "I just got home from the night shift. We talked about this yesterday."

Blinking slowly, Tom glanced at the papers, then back at Tord. "...I forgot," he admitted, digging his nails into his skin.

Tord squinted. "You still need to answer my question." He took a moment to take in Tom's posture.

The boy slouched with his nails digging into his arms. Even from here, he could see the tremors coming from Tom's smaller body. He had bags under his eyes and his lips were cracked.

"Are you on something?" Tord asked with a sneer, eyes narrowing. "Or are you drunk? You're not even twenty-one, Tom. You've got a lecture tomorrow. You should be asleep."

Tom shrugged, looking down. "I'm on coffee, Tord," he said, trying to bring some salt into his voice. Instead, it came out weak and pathetic. "Need... need to, uh... get this done," he stammered, chewing the inside of his cheek.

"Uh-huh. Coffee. You look like you injected meth into yourself. Seriously, why are you shaking that badly?" Tord walked up to Tom to the point that he towered over the boy.

"I'm not—" Tom's voice cracked, so he took a moment to collect himself. Calmer, he hissed out, "I'm not on drugs, Tord."

Tord huffed, looking at the kitchen table.

Papers. Tom was doing taxes— at one in the morning?

"Are you in debt or something?" he asked with a roll of his eyes, crossing his arms.

Of course, that posture immediately changed when Tom bursted into tears.

"Ah— Tom?" Tord asked in concern, eyes going wide as he quickly sat on his knees. "Hey, I'm sorry, did I upset you?" He grabbed Tom's hands and began to rub them soothingly as Tom's shoulders shook with a sob.

"Not... not you," he managed to get out, squeezing Tord's hands. "Mom..." He let out a sob. "Mom passed away a week ago."

Tord stiffened. "Shit, Tom, I—"

"I can't... pay for her funeral, Tord." Tom heaved in a breath as Tord stayed quiet. "Dad's never been in the picture, and her parents have long since been dead, but Tord— either I pay for the next trimester, or I pay for her funeral. I can't, Tord, I can't," he sobbed out, shoulders shaking.

"...How much, Tom?" Tord asked softly, standing up.

"Nine-thousand for her funeral, Tord. Nine-thousand," he cried as Tord hooked an arm under his legs and another and another under his arms, quickly lifting him up.

"It's alright, Tom," Tord soothed, walking to kitchen. "Let's just try to get some sleep tonight, okay? We can talk about it in the morning." He settled down on the couch, Tom in his lap. "It'll be okay, I promise," he murmured into Tom's ear, lying on the couch.