Strawberry Panic {TomTord}

Gay gets gayer

Stepping outside, a cool gentle breeze coiled comfortingly around his burning features; the few still remaining tear tracks feeling even more pronounced in the freshness of the air. Sticking unpleasantly to his skin, he attempted to wipe them away with a balled fist, silently thanking whoever was watching in the great, expanding cosmos that he didn't have any mascara to smudge. Trembling slightly, he pretended that his shivering was due to the cold, and not the fact he had just crushed his molester's hand into a bloody, pulp of worthless meat. Itching from irritation, his eyes ached, the sockets red-rimmed from the lack of sleep, and the emotional strain.

It had been so long, he had almost forgotten how exhausting, and yet weirdly cleansing it was to cry. To leave all inhibitions behind in a screeching, babbling mess as all of life's traumas slowly melted away under a tidal wave of shredded regrets and snot.

Maybe he should do it more- then perhaps he wouldn't be so pent up all the time.

Then again, that's usually what sex is for- and it wasn't like he was going to get that of action any time soon.

Or ever, actually.

Cheeks flushed red, he sniffled again, somewhat annoyed at the reverberating sense of deja vu that welled up in his chest. Leaving the house for work that morning had only just happened two hours before, and yet, inexplicitly, here he was again; stumbling away from a building in a melodramatic frenzy- red-faced and sensitive.

It was becoming a habit, he realised suddenly. A pattern of losing control of his emotions and experiencing some sort of over the top outburst.

Alcohol is his poison of choice. It was a depressant; slowing the world down so it spiralled at his pace, numbing him from the inside out when everything just seemed to be too much. In many ways, it alters the chemicals in his brain, destroying the delicate balance- leaving him empty and apathetic to just about anything.

Now, however, he hadn't been gaining that affected. Since starting his position at the cafe, he hadn't touched a drop of the stuff- either being too busy or too tired to indulge himself. From the temper tantrums that he had been spouting lately, it seemed like a good idea to jump back on the booze cruise.

"Tord? I need a drink- drop me off at the nearest shop, will you?" It was asked as though it was a question, despite being a clear demand.

"That's not happening," Tord huffed, glancing around the street fleetingly before settling into a steady pace in a seemingly random direction, "We have shit we need to do."

Having no other option, Tom followed, trudging a few steps behind him.

"The fuck we do." Tom snorted haughtily, at last, rolling his eyes, "I have a long overdue date with a bottle of Smirnoff-"

"No, you really don't." Interrupting smoothly, Tord muttered, seemingly unperturbed by the whole conversation, "You've been sober for the first time since you were a child- and if this is going to work, that's how you will stay."

"What to work?" Smacking his lips, he narrowed his eyes in mistrust, glaring imaginary daggers into the other man's back, "And why do you think that you have a say in my drinking habits?"

"That's not important." The statement was quick and sharp, as though Tord had seen the question coming from a mile away, "What is important is getting you-"