Strawberry Panic {TomTord}

Cherri bakes well

Being the painful, little ball of angst and misery that he is, Tom was no stranger to imagining his own death.

Usually, it was within the dark, isolated moments during the night. Sky gloomy, and devoid of stars, thick heavy clouds threatening to ruin someone's day. It was the perfect backdrop to his murky, unbridled thoughts- his empty, black sockets staring blankly ahead, brain foggy and his grip on reality loose.

Insomnia was depressions best friend, it seemed, as he would always find himself struggling to sleep. Between the golden hours of twelve to four am, he would just sit there, back leaning against the headboard, chewing the flesh of his fingers raw.

He had taken to affectionately calling those moments Sad Boi Hours- mostly because he was very white, and he refused to use the other substitute for 'boi'.

The perspective of his own death had changed over the years, from blind panicked fear to grim acceptance of the inevitable. When he was younger, he had vivid night terrors of shadow people or axe murderers tearing him apart as he laid useless and weak against the mattress. However, when he started to grow older, his fantasies warped into a more sad, and realistic tone, that matched his moody attitude.

Throughout the years he had knocked a few ideas around. He could get thrown around too hard in a bar fight, get stabbed whilst walking home, or be attacked on a street corner for looking weird.

Most accurate of all, Tom feels, is his destiny to die of his liver, or kidneys failing.

It was pathetic and mundane, and honestly, rather boring. Although, it would technically be a product of a lifetimes work, so really he couldn't find it in himself to get that upset.

It was something he had brought upon himself, after all.

What he was not expecting, however, was to be dressed in drag, covered in the remains of Cherri's adorable little rabbit cupcakes, frosting smeared across his chest, glass shards embedded in his trembling hands, in front of a crowd with his maybe-sort-of man-crush watching in disgust.

He had to be some sort of psychic to see that one coming.

Time stood still for what seemed like aeons, but what was probably only a handful of seconds. A hushed silence descended over the entire building, only a few muffled snickers from the teenagers in the back penetrated the suffocating wall of heavy, social embarrassment and mortification.

A deep angry flush of scarlet rose up in his cheeks, and he gulped noisily, his throat somehow too thick and dry to swallow properly. He blinked ferociously, batting away the moisture that threatened to seep out from the back of his eyes. Breath hitching, his heartbeat stuttered in his chest, gasping for air.

And then, all of a sudden, the room began moving again.

Noise flooded in from each angle of his existence, overflowing his senses and causing his eyesight to become blurry, black spots dancing in his vision. He felt a gentle hand grab his arm, and tugged him upwards, supporting his weight to manoeuvre him away from the crowd.

Bit by bit, the explosion of sound slowly started to make sense, his subconscious drawing in pieces of concerned conversation.

"Oh my god, is she alright?"

"Pffft, did you see that?"

"That guy is such an asshole-"

Everything washed over him all at once, his brain willing him to close his eyes and make a run for it.

But that would mean looking away from Tord.

He looked just as paralysed and haunted as Tom felt, body stock still, eyes wide, unblinking. It was like he couldn't believe what he was seeing.