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

• chapter three •

Tord couldn't sleep.

Three thoughts dominated his mind and looped endlessly: his future, his best friend, the sky. Desperately, he tried making connections between them, to no avail.

"Ugh." He stuffed his face into his pillow. It was hopeless.

Tord felt he was at an impasse. The only disagreement seemed to be in his own head, but he didn't know what it was, so couldn't resolve it.

I'm useless.

At times like this, Tord's mind was a gun... and the trigger had just been pulled.

Suddenly, rage shot through his veins, the fire his oxygen, sparks quickening his heartbeat.

"Jævla helvete!!"

Thankfully, cotton had muffled his scream. He raised his head, slowly, to see he was clenching his pillow like a lifeline. He released some of the tension in his muscles, letting out a ragged breath.

Jesus Christ, my insides are burning. And there were still embers left. Tord lifted his shirt a little to check - nope, no third degree burns to be seen. He gave a sigh of relief.

Out of the blue, the young man giggled. I remember when I almost set this place alight. His old friend had helped him stomp out a flaming towel, then doused the entire living room's wallpaper before the blaze would have gotten out of hand, luckily. After calling a number with a lot more than just three digits, nothing had been lost but the flat's deposit.

That wallpaper was ugly anyway.

His reminiscent laugh dripped with nostalgia. A little regret, too.

Oh, I miss you.

~

Birdsong, of all things, was what awoke Tord Evensen. And no - it wasn't his alarm, but real, resounding birdsong, reverberating sweetly from beyond his window.

All Tord could ever hope to respond with was, "The fuck...?"

I live in the city now, what the hell's going on?

Clearly, he was awake enough to swear, though his body argued otherwise... Tord attempted to shift his weight across the mess of blankets and pillows that was his bed, groaning continuously in protest of the need to move, when he was just so comfortable...

No! He snapped himself back into consciousness. I have work today!

It seemed that was all the motivation Tord's previously lagging body needed: he was up, showered, dressed and caffeinated before he knew it.

Tord stumbled to his door, almost causing the carpet, this time, to burn, as he faltered, remembering something. His eyes searched the kitchen diner, falling eventually at the messenger bag he'd nearly forgotten.

Swiping the thing cleanly off the table, the collar of his old jumper fell at an angle, exposing his bruised skin to the harsh, ever present nip of mid-autumn as soon as he had stepped outside.

• • •

Sunlight pierced through the windows, the tulle curtains as well, blitzing Tom's vision from what appeared to be every angle. "Tom, what time do you call this?" Matt asked, with the struggling patience only a best friend or composed mother could hold.

Already stationed at the sofa, dressed in a crop top and shorts that only just passed as pyjamas, Thomas placed a hand to his chin, mocking The Thinker sub rosa. For someone as short as him, the old chair was a suitable retreat from the light.