rapture • • TomTord Pastel/Punk AU [considering discontinuing]

• chapter one •

A dim light flickered amongst a seemingly endless dark. A figure moved, slowly and quietly, towards it.

It was a screen. 6 missed calls, it displayed blankly.

The figure lifted up the phone and shook its head in response. Rejected, the phone landed quite suddenly on the table, where it had resided beforehand.

The figure scuffled away to a corner of its habitat. A frown rippling across its face, it retreated deep into its cave of blankets.

It shuddered.

A tear dropped to the floor.

• • •

A young man gazed in thought at the moon. It often distracted him at times it shouldn't, but this time, he needed it to.

The clouds in the sky reminded him of something he kept in a locked drawer (and its key at the other end of the apartment).

A couple clicks. A flame. A singed end. A deep intake of breath.

His cigars.

He was more relieved than ever that he'd quit before he learned to enjoy them a little too much.

The smoke filled his lungs with dread and a bad aftertaste anyway.

But the majesty of the rainclouds and mist above him, he could love. He'd always love them. Despite the moon's scale, and its gravitational power over the tides, the clouds could block out its view entirely. Tear off just one piece of the incorporeal candyfloss of the sky, and it could flood the world.

Well. He stopped himself. It's clear I'm no expert on the things. I'd love someone who is to tell me all about them, though... preferably in Norwegian.

The young man sighed. Guess English would have to do. But I'd have to know someone here I've had more than one conversation with first.

He thought back, as far back as the day he arrived in England. From the flight attendant who thanked him for his custom to the shopkeeper from this afternoon who asked if he wanted his receipt. The only kindness he received, Tord realised, was from the tertiary sector.

Nope, he scoffed, reacting to his earlier statement, they're all dicks.

Tord laughed - one short, harsh "ha". That was all he'd give these people.

Inside, he wanted to give more.

• • •

A bottle fell to the ground, shattering into pieces - one of which cut into Tom's heel as he stepped backwards from the scene he'd created.

"Fuck," he hissed.

A voice - whose owner he'd forgotten momentarily - invaded his pain, fogging up Tom's thoughts with irritation instead. "So what'll it be, then?"

"What." Tom was as unimpressed as he was perplexed.

The other man stuttered a little. "W-Well... you know I've got money, right?" He stepped forward, pushed by a spike of fragile bravado. "I can buy you anything, sweetheart. Anything your heart desires, an' all that."

The Northerner paused, a slight grin on his features, whispering in the smaller man's ear. "I can pleasure you any way you want. You," he breathed, moving backwards, gaze casting over the even less enthused young man's figure, head to toe. "You're different, you."

Tom rolled his eyes. He wished they'd roll all the way back into his skull so he'd never have to see Davey's face again.

"Your eyes. Your body. Even your bloody hair."

"Your breath reeks of beer," Tom interrupted in a monotone.

Davey grunted. "And your fuckin' attitude, too." He recovered: "But that's what I like about you, you know. Your voice in bed, too - really makes the old facade redundant, doesn't it. And your skin -"

Then he received a punch so well thrown he lost his footing entirely, hitting his head hard on the door. Tom had clearly had enough.

Davey's expression of lust was replaced with rage. "Why, you fucking -"

"I really do appreciate that you enjoy the way I sound." Tom stood above the other man, "In fact, it flatters me, but if I'm honest... your accent, whether heard in moans or otherwise, is possibly the most degenerate-sounding thing in existence."

"Snobby. Little. Bitch!" And Davey was prepared to spit out every profanity he knew in quick succession, until Tom jabbed his heel sharply into Davey's stomach. "Agh!!"

"You're lucky I'm not wearing my stilettos, Davey. You'd throw up and bleed."

Tom checked if the earlier punch had affected his manicure (and it thankfully hadn't, or Davey would receive a much harsher punishment). After all, that shit is expensive, Tom rebuked.

"Disgusting," he decided. "Just like you."

He kicked the already-injured Northerner out of his way. Now crumpled up on his side, clutching his stomach, he made a pathetic little noise in return.

His hand was on the doorknob, yet something Davey said earlier came to his mind.

"Oh yeah! I have some advice for you, before I go," Tom purred.

Davey was unamused. "And what might that be?" he spat.

It was easy for Tom to ignore his feelings at this point. "In the future, if you're going to fetishise something, don't let it be femininity or the colour of someone's skin," he said in a sing-song voice.

"You were a nice, quick fuck. But nothing more. Goodbye, Davey."

He slammed the door on him.

When Tom heard it click shut, he bolted, barefoot, down three flights of stairs, across the hallway and out the back door.

As soon as he was out of sight of the building, Tom took his phone from his pocket.

He unlocked it, scrolled through his contacts and pressed an all-too-familiar number. It dialled twice, then Tom spoke before the recipient could.

"Hey Matt. Gonna need to crash at yours tonight."