Strawberry Panic {TomTord}

Drowning in pink

It was raining by the time he had stepped outside, because, of course, it fucking was.

Being as good of a backdrop as any for his overwhelmingly bleak life, Tom just snorted at the dramatic irony. Of course, he could kick, scream and cry but honestly, he just couldn't be bothered. Irritation already coiled tightly deep within his gut, threatening to curl around his lungs and wrap themselves around his throat. The rain was just an added annoyance that he didn't have the patience nor the energy to be upset about.

Instead, Tom had simply pulled up his hood extra tight against his face (even when irritated, his knew his tantrum wasn't worth the absolute terror that his hair turned into once wet) and continued to walk in the random direction that his feet had automatically picked for him.

His almost overexaggerated stomping was probably unnecessary, especially as he got into the habit of slamming his feet into ankle-deep puddles that sloshed loudly and splattered wetly against his legs. He shivered, eyes squinted, only half seeing the scenery around him as he plodded on, back arched defensively against the bitter cold.

Lost in self-deprecating thoughts so distressing that a therapist would refuse to listen to them, Tom failed to notice the massive incoming truck that was quickly advancing beside him. From his place on the pavement, he could only blink as a flash of near blinding light burned the back of his eyelids as a tidal wave of dirty, sludge-like water and bits of congealed mud crashed over him.

Teeth clacking together, his lips trembled as he felt the wetness seep into his clothing, causing them to darken and cling uncomfortably to his skin. Practically shaking, either from the deep-rooted anger that simmered just below the surface, or the numbness that was quickly leaching onto his bones; Tom felt the scream that ripped itself from his throat before he heard it.

"WATCH where you're FUCKING DRIVING, ASSHOLE!" His knuckles were white from how hard he was clenching them.

From the distance, he faintly heard the, "Fuck you too, buddy!" from the driver as he swerved narrowly around a corner, out of sight.

Tom stood there for a second, drenched through with enough water that it basically constituted as a small lake, and cursed his existence.

It was damn near enough to make him cry.

Good job he was too dehydrated for that.

Ahh, irony at its best.

Feeling the goose bumps spreading across his skin, he huffed and continued walking in the same direction. He'd rather get sick than go back home to Tord.

Before he had the chance to overanalyse the last interaction that they had (what was that? Did that count as flirting?), he spotted something from the corner of his eye that caused him to stop abruptly.

A neon pink sign glowed brightly against the dim gloom, the soft colours distorting from their place in the reflections of the deep pools of rainwater outside. Placed over the top of a slight pastel blue banner, the words, "Topped Off- Britain's Best (and only) Maid Cafe" buzzed lightly. It was accompanied by a range of small, cute drawings of various foods with shy, blushing faces.

Tom quipped an eyebrow in surprise. What the fuck is a maid cafe?

He looked into one of the windows, spotting another, smaller cardboard sign that read, "HELP WANTED- see inside for further info". Creeping closer, he squashed down the urge to check that the coast was clear- god forbid that there were any bystanders witnessing him going into a weeb place like this.

Upon pushing open the door, a soft ringing echoed throughout the cafe, light like a bell. The warmth that almost immediately clung to his near-drowned frame was a blessing, and he felt a pleased sigh escape from his slightly blue lips.