Ding dong, you are wrong

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Skin slick from strawberry scented foam, and hair once again a glorified birds nest, Tom found himself to be strangely at peace.

It wasn't as though the stars had magically aligned overnight and he suddenly didn't have depression anymore- it was more of a gentle ebb of calmness that trickled lazily from his core. Heartbeat slow, it thudded in an unhurried pace; mind blissfully whisper quiet, unmarked by its hidden corruption. Flesh lacked its sickly combination of greenish pale hue and cold sweat, the bags under his eyes a little less noticeable. Limbs steady, they lacked the usual stiffness that lingered in his bones, weary and prepared for an onslaught of trembling anxiety.
A fog had cleared, or in the very least, had thinned significantly, bordering on a casual alertness- something that he hadn't felt in years.

And yet, despite everything, he knew that he wasn't happy.

Not quite.

Deep-rooted sorrow didn't clutch at his throat in an icy, unyielding grip- it was more of a dull background noise, hushed and unfocused. Instead of stumbling around in the dark with a sense of profound sadness, it felt lighter, like a weight had been lifted but still easily acknowledged.

He wasn't happy.

He wasn't sad.

It was more of an empty feeling- but that in of itself wasn't accurate. More of an absence than a gaping pit of nothingness.

He supposed he could call it contentedness.

And that was fine.

Feeling content was a stepping stone in the right direction; the first rung of the ladder that led to the feeling of being complete again- to be whole again.

To be human again.

Even slipping out of the shower couldn't ruin his mood- with a freshly bruised elbow, he smiled, lips curling naturally.

It felt good to be alive.

Perhaps it was due to the fact he was somehow sleeping more now, despite the fact he was constantly moving from place to place. Perhaps it was the product of positive romantic experiences; something that he had craved for a very long time, and yet lacked the confidence to fully flesh out. Perhaps it was the newfound honesty that he had unlocked within himself- free from the restrictive shackles of his questioning sexuality, making him feel more in touch and in control in his environment, dissociation gone.

Perhaps.

Or maybe, just maybe,  it could be due to the fact he's had two orgasms in just as many hours, but honestly, who was counting?

((Tom was)). 

(((It was twice!))).

Speaking of orgasms; Tom found himself to be pleasantly surprised by the fact that his first sexual gay experience was on a bed of all places-  and not, for example, against a half full dumpster of rotting meat, soaked in sweat as he, yet again, committed the very illegal crime of public indecency.

Surely that counted as character development.  

If not, then he clearly didn't know what self-improvement was.

Standing in the middle of the room, shivering slightly from the cold, Tom tried his best to not outright bitch about the fact that his dripping was probably ruining the already threadbare carpet. Wrapping his arms around his chest, he stuffed his hands into his armpits, leg jiggling as he watched Tord fulfil his tired morning routine. 

Ruffling his mop of a hairdo with a slightly damp towel, Tord had shrugged on a red tank top and the grey pair of sweats he had slept in. To be fair, if he was going to go under the knife in about thirty minutes time, then there was probably no point in glamming up his appearance- no one had to try to look sexy for the operating table. 

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