Strawberry Panic {TomTord}

Existential crisis

With a resume that basically resembled a slightly scrunched up post-it note with the words, 'pls hire, need Smirnoff' scribbled in red crayon, Tom was finding the job search quite stressful.

He had done everything in his power in order to get somewhere and to perhaps, maybe, not disappoint Edd in the way he had his parents- or virtually all of the other people that have come and gone from his life. Everything from searching online, mass spamming his resume to just about every job agency there was, to meticulously browsing ads in the local paper, and filling out stupid personality quizzes that obviously forced him to lie about his 'bubbly/easy-going' personality. 

Distressingly enough, through the entire soul-sucking experience, he was constantly being smacked in the face with the reminders as to why he doesn't try to succeed.

Not anymore.

When life was slow moving, and boring- usually filled with drunken headaches and sloppy guitar playing; Tom's life was small, unfulfilling and safe. He didn't have to work tirelessly at a nine-to-five office gig, having the life slowly squeezed from him for minimum pay, whilst his friends gradually grew apart.

His freeloader life is a comfort zone that he had been wrapped up in for years, like an old fuzzy blanket that kept him warm and protected. If he didn't have life goals, if he didn't have good expectations for himself; then they can't be ripped away. Dreams can't crash and burn before your eyes if they didn't exist in the first place.

That's how it used to be.

Not that he has the free reign to dig his head in the sand anymore.

Huffing out a heavy sigh, Tom stretched, his spine erupting with sounds of popping and cracking. Hissing at the mild discomfort, he looked back at the mountain of paper surrounding him from his place on his bed. Most of them were rejection letters, but some of them were forms he had yet to fill out and send off.

Good job they were all mixed up so he couldn't tell the difference anymore.

Running his hands through his hair, Tom groaned loudly, before glancing down at Susan longingly.

He rolled out of bed, scattering papers around the room as he hit the floor with a heavy thunk. Mumbling curses under his breath, he reached over and lovely stroked the well-worn strings of the instrument in thought.

In an ideal world, where he could do anything he wanted without the fear of consequences (or at the very least, consequences that were somehow worse than getting shot in the face with lasers. Twice), he would have liked to be the lead guitarist in his own band, moving from place to place, not really settling down anywhere for too long.

What could he possibly want more than booze, music and close friends?

He started strumming softly, humming along quietly as he made up bits and pieces as he went.

Once upon a time, he wanted to be an animator; fascinated with the way in which artists made their creations move as though they were alive. He still idealises Edd for having the patience to pull that off, to keep working at his passion without his parent's blessings or an art degree.

Tom used to want that.

He became an alcoholic instead.

A loud snort interrupted his musings, and Tom swirled around in surprise, gripping Susan to his chest protectively.

"Wow, 'Hovah." Tord drawled lazily, leaning against the door frame, "You look like shit."

Tord punctuated his point by looking him up and down slowly, his burning gaze intensifying as he reached his eyes, a deliberate smirk on his lips.

"Thanks, Shit Stain. The 'I just jerked off' look really matches the psychopath look in your eyes." Tom grunted back, placing the instrument back in its place.

"You watch me jerk off?" Tord grinned, quipping an eyebrow inquisitively.

"That's what you got out of that? You sound hopeful." Tom sniffed back in disgust, trying to ignore the way his face flushed a faint red.

How had they gotten to this point?

Seeming to ignore him, Tord pushed off from his position in the doorway, stepping further into the room, looking around in obvious distaste.

"That wasn't an invitation to come in, Asshole."

"Going well, is it?" He nodded towards the collapsed mess of paper, taking extra care to walk over a particularly large pile in his muddy shoes. He picked one up between pinched fingers, and read one aloud, " Mr Rockwell, we are writing to you in order to politely ask to please leave us alone, and never contact us again. You're scaring our children. Thanks."

Tom surged forward and ripped the letter from his hands, paper crinkling loudly at the violent action. He scrunched it up into a ball and threw it to the floor.

"Fuck off, Commie." He snarled, fists clenched by his sides.

Tord laughed, "You really are pathetic aren't you?"

Clenching his teeth, Tom closed his eyes tightly, heaving heavy breaths as he internally struggled.

He was angry at Tord, sure.

But he was even angrier at the fact that Tord was right.

Tom was pathetic.

Throughout the few weeks of job hunting, the only thing that he had manage to succeed at was thoroughly staining his pillow in frustrated tears. Even when Tom actively tries to achieve something by his own merit, he fails anyway.

Tom twitched slightly, opening his mouth to give a quick-witted retort- to, to say anything, but nothing came out. He paused, closing his mouth in consideration.

Matt had found his job two days after the talk.

A pretty nice position in a hair salon, mainly sweeping floors and making tea but still- good lighting, shiny things and a shit load of mirrors? It was virtually perfect for the vain bastard.

An aching pit of self-loathing bubbles up inside of him, burning the back of his throat and stinging the back of his eyes.

"Jehovah?"

Throwing on his classic hoody, he stomped past, slamming the door closed dramatically as he stuffed his balled fists into his pockets.

Fuck this.

Drinking until he forgot his own name sounded pretty good. He had earned it after all.