Strawberry Panic {TomTord}

Dollar store dank kush

Florescent white light seeped into the black, murky depths of his soulless eyes, burning at his retinas and blurring the bright room into a warped sea of bland colour. Thrumming machines buzzed noisily in the stiff, stale air, beeping in a loud monotonous rhythm- echoing faintly within the empty rattling of his skull. Disinfectant hovered heavily, thick and restricting in the hollow of his chest, wrapping around his throat in a suffocating chokehold. Gasping breath came out as rough, crackling rasps, the world tilting in a dizzy haze as the sterile scent corrupted his convulsing lungs. 

Honestly, fuck hospitals.

Hand failing out blindly, he slapped his palm against the solid wood of the door he had just stepped through, leaning back against it as he owlishly blinked through his brain rebooting. Face twitching, he squinted his eyes, watching with a detached interest as the room slowly knitted itself into focus, objects holding new, grounded meaning within the emptiness of his mind. 

Alternatively, fuck PTSD.

If Tom somehow, by some abstract miracle, ended up having a few crotch spawns of his own one day, he'd make sure to remember to birth them within the comfort of his own home- without the soul-sucking expressions of snooty doctors, and the unnatural flair of artificial empathy.

Really, what happened to the good old days of warm bath towels and pushing out the bloody, flailing bodies of your fuck trophies on the cold hardness of the kitchen floor?   

Society had clearly gotten soft- with their healthcare and fresh drinking water. 

Apparently just the casual scenting of disinfectant was enough to propel him into a gaping pit of self-defensive humour- he would promise himself to work on that later, but Tom would be only kidding himself; he had enough on his plate as it was.

Anxiety waited for no bitch.

Reality seeped back into place, trickling like a steady stream of conscious. White walls greeted him, as expected, two cream coloured couches sitting against the far side, crowding around a low wooden coffee table. Stacks of meaningless magazines sat on top of the small surface, piled neatly in a seemingly compulsive habit. Lingering above, mounted a flat screen tv, turned off and apparently remote-less. Past the cold tile, was placed an open glass partition, a sliding door wide to reveal a sad looking hospital bed, various machines circling around it like a ritual sacrifice. A large set of wide windows sat opposite him, blinds left swept open to reveal the black, clouded expense of the night sky- tiny dots of twinkling stars glinting within the gloom, reflecting back at him like an inescapable mirror. 

 "You look like shit."  Tom croaked impulsively, giving himself a quick once-over.

He looked tired, sad and gay. 

"Very camp." He dully observed, watching the way the thin fabric stretched over his slim chest. 

And Edd had thought the sailor's cap had been, as quoted, 'a bit much.'

A grunt distracted his overanalysing, faint and distant. It was grumbled, rough and sleepy from a long spell of drowsy slumber. 

Startled, Tom ripped his hooded gaze from his own reflection, twisting his head around to peer past the glass door.

Tord.

Smooth tan skin looked pale and sickly against the thin sheets, hair splaying messily against the gentle plush of the stacked pillows. Plump lips slacked open, a solid strong chest shuddered deeply, slow and lethargic. Eyelashes fluttered weakly against the smattered specklings of freckles that highlighted flushed cheekbones, a slight frown twisting at the blank expression, brows dipping in displeasure. Wires, thin and slick black, coiled around the large bulk of a strong torso, tangling with graceless, limp limbs, embedded deeply within the delicate flesh of his hand.