No Pain, No Glory | Tomarry

9: So horrible

It starts during one of their fights.

Tom has lost himself again into a delirium of ache, blood and somewhere in there, eternal bliss.

Riling up the younger is so easy, like telling a snake to go out and start scaring the little ones in the Orphanage.
Harry is so eager to release all that stress - the stress created by the daily training for facing Grindelwald - out at someone. He should be grateful for Tom's existence, really.

The Slytherin never fails to pick up his anger and help him channel it out. Even if that means channeling it out on him. He doesn't mind. It's part of the game.

Now they're in an abandoned classroom. One the younger dragged him into.

They never start wrestling in front of a crowd, unless the Gryffindor sees red. Harry has always had anger issues, but most of the time, he manages to get the other away from their classmates before giving him his own set of scars.

Tom has a split lip, his left hand broken and the right knee surely dislocated, but he doesn't have time to focus on the pain.

Not when the Gryffindor is mere inches away from touching him, a trail of blood running from his brow down his chin, clothes wrinkled, nails covered in mud.

"Are you giving up?" Hisses Harry, grabbing his left wrist and pulling him closer, teeth sharp, like a beast's.

"It depends." Murmurs Tom, almost lovingly, his right hand into a fist. "Are you?"

The fingers of the younger's free hand curl around the fabric of Tom's shirt. "Not ever."

A smile. Small but distinguishable. "Then neither am I."

"You get high on this?" Whispers the savior through choked breaths.

"I do, yes." Admits the taller boy. "In the same way this makes you feel complete as well."

Harry's hand tightens its grip on the shirt. "You're mental! You insulted my friends. You deserve this."

He wants to whip the eye roll off of Tom's face. It happens anyway. "Please. You use your friends as an excuse to pick a quarrel with me. You want this as much as I do. Don't try to deny it."

Harry strikes another punch on the older's abdomen. How dare the Slytherin accuse him of such things. "I don't use them!"

"Oh, but you do." As an answer, Tom's hand twist Harry's, the one that had been locked around his own arm and pushes the younger down on the floor. "You use our little rows as an excuse to get away from whatever has to do with the Dark Lord. That's not exemplary behavior, you know."

Tom kneels down as well, eager to see the distress he has caused. His legs are on top of the other boy's knees, having trapped him to that same place, unable to move.

He is not disappointed.

Harry looks like an animal, trying to find a vulnerable spot to hit. He's unhinged, full of rage and pain. Just how Tom likes him the most.

"Fuck you." The bespectacled boy spits out. Blood lands on the Slytherin's shirt, tainting it. "You're no better than me."

The older isn't at all affected by the insult. He grabs both of the boy's palms and holds on to them, no matter how much Harry struggles against him.

"You depend too much on some crystal ball that may or may not be real." Mutters Tom, tone pitying.

"Prophesies are real."

"For you, maybe. For me, no. I mold my own future."

"Liar." Says Harry.

"I'm not lying." Replies Tom, voice perfectly collected. "I know what fates have arranged for me. In the exact same way I know that, one day, you will break. You will finally see things my way. You and I are the same like that. It's why you like me."