TomTord-Tordtom Oneshots 2

met at the library.

Tom was a writer. He was a good writer. He had many books published that he wrote. Although they're all different stories, they all have one thing in common. The books he writes, are sad. The boy doesn't get the girl. The villain wins. Bad things happen. Even if every single chapter in his book is happy, the very last chapter makes the book take a dive straight into sadness.

Many people asked Tom, "Why do you write such sad stories?" Tom always says that he just likes to see the reality in things. That was a lie. A bit one. He bases the books off of his own sadness. Sometimes his own experiences. Whenever Tom gets a new book published, Edd always makes sure to buy one. Tom hates it. The books he wrote are always on display on a bookshelf in the living room. Whenever Tom looks at them he's reminded of his own sadness. As pathetic as it sounds, he wished he didn't have to write anymore.

There's a problem with that. Writing was how he coped with his feelings. He wasn't a great artist. He was an okay singer. But writing. Writing was what made all of his bad feelings go away for just a short amount of time.

Tom was in his room, writing. He had been holed up in there for the past hour. Edd and Matt expected this. Tom did it often. Dissapear for hours at a time. Without a word to the others. If Tom was in his room, there was a eighty percent chance he was writing. Sometimes while he was writing, tears were flowing down his face.

It's amazing how easily you can make others cry. The tap of a finger on a keyboard could bring somebody to tears if the right words were strung together. The stroke of a pen. Tom seemed to do that a lot.

Tom sighed, saving his work. He closed his laptop, and got out of bed for the first time that morning. He slipped on his shoes, and walked out of his room.

"Hi, Thomas, nice of you to join us. It's three in the afternoon." Matt said, rudely. He was always jealous of Tom's fame. Tom weakly waved, and walked out the front door. Edd smiled at him.

"It's so cool having somebody famous living in the house. Did you know that he can't even go to the store without being swarmed by at least five people?" Matt raised an eyebrow. He doubted that.

Tom pulled up his hood, tightening the strings. He was walking to his favorite place. The library. Of course. The writers favorite place is the library. How stereotypical. He pushed open the door, causing a few eyes to turn his way. He heard a few gasps as he walked past, straight to the fiction section. As vain and narcissistic that sounds. His books were there, and that was his favorite place to go. His books always attracted sadness. Sad people, sad music, sad vibes. Just sad. Tom picked up a book (it wasn't any of his) and walked to go sit down. He saw a man, around his age, reading a book. One of his. He was biting his lip, his hand pulled up to his face. He was trying not to cry.

Tom walked up to the chairs and sat down a little ways away from him. Tom wanted to talk to him, but despite Tom's writing abilities, he wasn't very good at talking. The words in his mind just seem to get jumbled on the way out.

"That's a good book. I liked it." Tom blurted out. He was surprised by his own words. The man looked up, blinking. He was blinking tears away. He nodded.

"His books always make me cry. I guess I can just.. relate to them. Y'know?" Tom nodded.

"It was fun to write. It took a while though. Despite the sadness of the book, it is quite popular. It's not my favorite work though." The man looked confused.

"Did.. did you write this book?" Tom nodded, opening up the book he was going to read. Tom internally smiled, while the guy beside him was silently freaking out.

"You look about how I thought you looked. Menalcholy. Your books are quite beautiful, but I really did think you would be better at talking." He said it all with a smile. Tom looked at him in amazement.

"No, I'm not good at talking, but it seems that you are." Tom reached across the space between their chairs, with his hand open. "My name is Tom." The other man laughed quietly, shaking Tom's hand.

"Yes, I know your name, you wrote my favorite books. I'm Tord, it's amazing to meet you." Tom flushed slightly. He forgot he was somewhat famous.

"You're an interesting person." Tom pulled out a small notebook, writing down the name 'Tord' as well as a few of the noticeable things about him. 'He is good at speaking' 'His hair is in a strange look, but he makes it look nice.'

"Aww, you think my hair looks nice? Thank you." Tom snapped his head up to look at Tord, more red than before. "You mumble what you're writing down." Tom closed his little notebook, and put it away.

"I write down the most noteworthy things in my little book. I mean, notebook. You might show up in one of my books one day. Your name will be changed though." Tord looked at him, smiling.

"That's very flattering. I'd like to know more about you. Could we meet up one day?" Tom nodded.

"Sure. You're a kind person. Here. This is how you can.. contact me.." Tom had to think for a moment for the right word to say. He wrote down his phone number, and handed it to the man. He stood up with the book he had grabbed earlier, and walked to the desk to check it out. Once that was done, he walked out the door. Not without waving goodbye to Tord first. Tord waved at him, and winked. Tom smiled and walked away.

He may be a good writer, able to find the smallest mistakes, but he is so oblivious. Tom made his way home. He ignored Edd and Matt on the couch, and walked to his room. He pulled out his laptop, and opened a new document.

'Dedicated to Tord. The man I met at the library'

Tom started writing. Maybe this book will have a happy ending! A few chapters in, and nope, it's already sad.

Many months later, Tom finished his book, and sent it to an editor. The editor fixed small mistakes, and sent it to a publisher. They published the book, and started printing. Tom took the very first copy to his special friend that he met at the library.