TomTord oneshots

good thing i already want to die ;)

hey remembered when i said i'd do that three word challenge like fucking months ago? yeah here y'all go

also tw: suicidal ideation

Life had become an obligation.

Do this. Do that. Become the rebellion that singlehandedly took down the Red Army. Have your two best friends only ever come to you for help and no longer for companionship.

A sigh escaped Tom's lips as he gently rocked his bottle of Smirnoff back and forth, staring at the empty bar in front of him. The only noise that reached his ears was the sound of fire crackling from the streets, easy to hear due to the hole in the wall.

He took a sip of his drink, relishing in the old memories that came with the sweeter taste. The days before this stupid fucking war started. Memories of six years ago.

How tragic.

Edd and Matt left the war effort two years ago. They stopped talking to him, the fucking rebellion leader, unless they needed supplies for their refugee camps. The supplies that Tom could barely afford. No one cared what he wanted; just what he had.

He never complained. At least they talked to him.

He bit his lip.

The war was almost order. The rebellion was winning. In fact, they were working out a peace treaty right now. Tom was supposed to be there, actually, but he couldn't force himself to go. Besides, Edd and Matt agreed to go in his stead. Edd was a damn master of negotiation; he had no doubt that they'd figure some shit out. He already had Tord backed into a corner.

Fucking Tord.

At the thought of him, Tom scowled. Tord had ruined their fucking lives with this whole shit.

He just missed having the gang together. The four of them.

His face scrunched up.

The door of the destroyed bar opened, but Tom couldn't find himself to care. He continued to stare at the wall, taking a sip of his drink. The sound of boots clicking on the floor as they drew closer made him scowl.

A gun cocked and pressed against his head.

"Good evening, Thomas."

His eyes flickered to the side. Tord stood there, wearing his good old uniform, head tilting with a wild grin. A sigh escaped Tom's lips. "Evening. How'd you find me?" He took a sip of his drink.

"Tracker." Tord shrugged.

Tom just sniffed in disdain, face blank. It showed nothing, matching perfectly with his emotions.

The gun pressed harder, digging into his skin. "Well? Don't you have more questions? It's not like you expected this."

He laughed. "I didn't expect this, but it doesn't surprise me." A sigh escaped his lips. "What questions are there to ask?"

"I don't know." Tord let out an annoyed huff. "What about 'what are you doing here,' or maybe 'why are you doing this?"

Tom let out a long sigh. "Alright, alright." He brought his voice up a few pitches. "My goodness, my dear old friend!" He turned in his seat so he could face Tord, pointer finger and thumb out as he stuck it close to his face. His eyes were mockingly wide. "What are you doing here? Surely, there's no reason for you to kill me, now that the war is over? I cannot fathom your thought process!" He dropped the act. "Was that good enough for you?"

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Tord growled out, slowly lowering his gun. "I'm about to kill you!" 

With no hesitation, Tom grabbed Tord's wrist, earning a gasp. However, rather than taking the gun away, Tom just forced Tord's hand up so the gun remained against his head. "I've noticed. So do it. I'm right here, ready to be killed. What are you waiting for? Do it. Do it!"