❥ tordtom oneshots《

the smell of your cologne

ik, i just came back, and im writing angst instead of fluff, or smut

suck it up buttercup /j

im depressed and nobody else listens to me, so it is my duty to force everyone to cry with me :)

-

"where, where did i go wrong?" tom asks, to nobody in particular. "how come i couldnt see this coming? why couldnt i see how strange he was acting? now ive lost him. this is all my f-ault.."

his voice shook at the end, and his vision got blurry with tears.

"of course h-he broke up with you! you useless, sad, good for n-nothing pi-ece of shit..!"

tom gripped at his hair and grit his teeth as he started to cry more.

he wish he stayed.

he wish he stayed to explain himself. to tell tom where he went wrong, so he can salvage their relationship.

was it because he was too clingy?

maybe it was the way he cooked, or how he hogged the blankets in bed, or how he cried nervously when they were starting to have sex.

maybe he was too ugly for him? did he get sick of toms skinny, pale, uselessly weak body? was he not, what he presumed, sexy anymore? maybe it was the alcohol addiction.

or maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe maybe..

it was just tom.

he didnt want tom.

the brit whimpered at that conclusion, although he agreed, he wasnt a guy that people desired, he had a lot of problems; it hurt. it hurt to think that tord just didnt love him.

was it like that from the start?

or just recently?

he seemed all good and lovey dovey, no? so he just,, started to lose interest?

maybe he saw tom as a lost cause,

since all his attempts to get tom to quit drinking, quit cutting, quit moping, failed?

or worked...

then failed.

he inhaled sharply, suddenly feeling like he was suffocating. like he was drowning. maybe he was, metaphorically. drowning in tears. in sorrow.

he missed him.

face it.

tom slowly got up from his bed, sniffling at the puddle of tears staining his pillow cover. his chest felt tight, his eyes stung, his throat felt dry, and his heart felt strained.

plus, his brain hurt.

just his luck.

he went into his closet, digging through it, trying to find tomee bear, or his switch blade. something to cope with the pain! anything!

his breath hitched.

in his hands, now, lied a glass spray bottle, with a whiskey colored liquid inside.

a purfume bottle.

a cologne bottle.

his cologne bottle.

tom let out a shattered cry. anything that belonged to him, or even reminded tom of him, hurt. like knives cutting into his heart. tens of them, stabbing into his frail body, and in a way that he didn't want. not the pain he craved. the pain he wished he could get rid off.