Strawberry Panic {TomTord}

Get a job, ya hippy

"Guys? We need to talk."

In mostly every context imaginable, those four words were enough to send anyone into a fit of blind panic. Whether it is uttered by your best friend, boss or boyfriend; the next few minutes are almost guaranteed to be filled with either angry, betrayed screaming or snot covered, ugly crying. 

Tom being, well, Tom- was very experienced with both inevitable reactions. It wasn't the first time he was on the receiving end of that heart shattering, life-altering phrase, and he supposes, it will not be the last either. Knowing this forms a heavy, knotting sensation in his chest, and he silently curses the current lack of alcohol in the fridge; the need to wash away the aching bitterness in a smothering mass of cool, burning numbness that could only be found at the bottom of a bottle was monumental. 

He looked down, lips pursed, squinting down at his morning bowl of Lucky Charms™️ in slight irritation. 

Edd, to his credit, didn't seem to want to beat around the bush on the issue. Usually, the dreaded confession was sheepish, and slow; cruelly dragging out the uncomfortable conversation by stuttering half apologizes and 'it's not you, it's me's'.  In comparison, the green-clad male just looked kind of bored, and maybe hungry, but definitely did not look like he was in the mood to declare that he was moving across the world, or dying from an incurable disease. 

This was enough to calm him slightly. 

Slightly, being the key word. 

Across from him, from the other side of the small kitchen table, Tord took this moment to place the glossy porn magazine he had been skimming through down on his lap and leaned back on his chair, "Yeah, Edd?"

The sniff of distaste that left Tom was missed by all but Tord, who rolled his eyes in reply.

Edd shuffled uncomfortably for a few moments, his bunny slippers making the slight movements almost soundless against the black and white tile. His gaze flitted around the room, taking in the sight of his best friends-stroke- roommates, before finally settling his stare on Matt, who had up to that point, had been silently nibbling on his toast.

"We're in trouble. Rent is due in two weeks and my art commissions aren't enough." He sighed heavily and crossed his arms tightly against his chest. Then, almost as a second thought, softly added, "They haven't been enough for a while."

Tom looked back down at his breakfast, twirling his spoon absentmindedly in the bowl of milk, teeth sinking into his bottom lip. Yikes, here it comes.

"Which means-" Edd paused, creating a heavier air of tension that hovered uncomfortably around Tom's shoulders, "Matt? Tom? You need to start looking for jobs so you can start helping with the rent."

Ah, there we fucking go.

Matt wailed in disapproval. His loud, panicked ranting becoming background noise as Tom dropped his spoon with a resounding clatter. He rounded on Edd, a defensive glare resting in his black, empty eyes. 

"I haven't had a job since high school, Ed. And that was a goddamn paper round- I don't even have a resume-" He huffed, already annoyed, and decidedly too sober for this conversation.  

Edd simply shrugged in response, "So? I'm sure we can help you to scrape something together- I heard that the bakery down the road was hiring-"

"The bakery is ALWAYS hiring, Edd! Why do you think that is? The owner is a massive Russian veteran with biceps the size of  Tord's hentai collection-"

"That's pretty big." Murmured Tord under his breath, eyes glazed over in thought. 

"-It's probably a front for something! Like-"

Edd shakes his head, half in disappointment, half in cosmic despair. Tom was quite familiar with both of those emotions.

"Tom, a simple 'no' would have been enough. You don't need to break out your conspiracy theories on Russian drug trafficking in order to get out of responsibility." 

 With a large quirk of his lips, Tord grinned widely, "You can hardly blame him, Edd. He needs to do something between binge drinking and sleeping off his hangovers." 

Huffing out a heavy sigh, Edd sat down on the remaining empty chair, slumping largely. Rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms, he mumbled out a tired, "Tord. Not helping."

Face tightening, Tom felt a wave of anger well out of the empty pit of his stomach, sloshing up his sides and lapping at his chest. A hot, furious flush spread across his face as a growl threatened to bubble up from his throat, and trickle out of his scowling lips. 

"How come the Commie is excluded from this?" He hissed, his arm outstretched across the other side of the table in accusation, "Playing favourites?"

Edd narrowed his eyes, and tightened his posture, "Tom- Tord has been paying rent since he moved in." The 'unlike you' statement was left unsaid, but it still lingered uneasily in the room nonetheless.

"I'm not sure how-" he turned slightly, looking at Tord with a slight mixture of confusion and distrust, "But he does- monthly."

Tord simply smirked around his cigar in response, leaning back impossibly further on his chair, eyes closed.

Smug bastard. Tom snorted darkly.

Quickly turning to look at Matt, Tom hoped for- well- anything, really. Any contribution to Team FreeLoaders would be helpful, and by the looks of things,  Edd largely seemed to be at the end of his rope. Besides, Edd always seemed to take things easier with Matt.

"But-but-but-" Matt's eyes were wide in disbelief, both of his hands grasping his hair in distress, "I'm too pretty to work! How do you expect me to keep looking this gorgeous if you take time out of my beauty routine! It takes HOURS-"

"Matt." Edd spoke softly, comfortingly, "If you do get a job, you'll be able to buy more sparkly things for your collection. You've been wanting to get that vintage mirror from the antique store for a while now, yeah?"

And he says he doesn't play favourites. 

Tom shook his head and watched in despair as Matt's eyes glazed over in thought, pupils crossing due to his concentration, the gears in his head working overtime.

"Matt-"

"DEAL!" Matt squealed in excitement, virtually vibrating in his chair as he started to ramble about impressed ladies and becoming rich.

Tom's head collided with the table, a loud thunk emitting from the impact as he groaned loudly. 

There wasn't enough Smirnoff in Britain to make this bearable.