Strawberry Panic {TomTord}

Flirting with danger

Insomnia had wrapped its cold, unforgiving claws around quickly that night.

Propped up by a mountain pillows, back slouched against the headboard, and TomeeBear tucked neatly under his drooped chin, he hummed a soft tune under his breath. Rocking from side to side, he struggled to calm his insistent, nagging thoughts; brain crackling unpleasantly at his frazzled nerves.

Rain thudded heavily against the window pane, harsh wrapping winds shuddering the glass, causing it to rattle endlessly within the gloom of the night. Dark, thick clouds hung overhead incessantly, blanketing the sky in a dull, nightmarish grey. There wasn't one star to be seen.

Tom hated how much of a metaphor it was for his life.

Despite the chaotic jumbled mess of his day, and the hazy buzz of exhaustion creeping ever closer over his field of vision, the luxury of sleep still eluded him. It wasn't the loudness of the weather or his regularly scheduled brooding existential crisis that kept him awake this time, however.

Instead, the near constant writhing of his anxious thoughts wreaked havoc on his conscious, strung up tightly from a fidgety, nervous energy. It was hard to fully wrap his head around the last twenty-four hours, the onslaught of new information was confusingly vague, as usual, and there were a lot of variables he hadn't considered before.

Ms Sinclair had snapped up his pathetic, soggy ass without much of a struggle- sitting there in her tall chair as she watched him beg with a deadpan and almost bored expression. It made sense, in a way. Whilst he wasn't a complete expert on gang-based indoctrination; he did know for certain that manipulation worked best on people who were already weak and malleable, their minds susceptible to any outside guidance.

Maybe that's what Ms Sinclair had in mind for him. Gentle prodding can go a long way if done effectively and if lead by a stable reassuring hand could be coaxed into doing just about anything that is desired. She saw his blubbering, shaking form and saw the same potential that Tord had.

The cross-dressing was just a nice blackmail cherry, on top of a cake of insufferable control and deceit.

Although, it was unknown whether Ms Sinclair was aware of the mildly illegal business being conducted in her cafe. How could he really tell the difference between excusable coincidences and deliberate actions without asking too many suspicious questions? If Tord's words were to be taken as gospel, then the only absolute truth that he knew for certain was that the leader's son was a frequent visitor and that the bakery they use as a front had heavy connections with sweet production.

Who made the cupcakes for the cafe?

Cherri. 

A twinge of pain burst through his chest.

Could she be apart of the gang? It was possible. Being the confident, sassy person that she was, he could definitely see how she could use her sharp tongue to persuade anyone to do her bidding. She was the one that introduced him to the business, after all.

Worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, he closed his eyes with a deep, pained sigh.

For the sake of his health, decided not to dwell on it for too long.

The newfound possibility of danger and the warped sense of guilt he possessed for the secrets he was keeping weighed heavily on his shoulders, an unmistakable ache rippling through his muscles as though it had manifested itself into a physical discomfort.

It was safer this way. Not for himself, obviously, but for his friends.

"The less you know, the better off you'll be."