tom holland oneshots

foxgloves

warnings : cursing, fighting (violence), BRIEF mention of depression, hospitals / car shit, mentions of death

summary : tom deals with the after effects of letting the reader leave his life (PART II OF BOOMERANG)

word count : 2500

(requested) wow okay so i got like 20 requests for a part two of "boomerang," so here goes...

The foxglove of the plantains, or the digitalis, blew in the wind like a beaut on a horse. Its colors, encapsulating, vivid, vibrant, radiant, rich. Sweet smells from the pollen and nectar wafting through the air, luring in those who dared to have such a sacred piece of life. Petals as delicate and fragile and intricate as stemware, filled with crimson winery, sweet and bitter like the flower's nectar. The middle, the center, the inside. Intimate and exclusive, blossoming only to those willing to experience the pain that came with such a devilish plant, full to the brim with nightmares disguised as daydreams. But even with all the beauty; colors and petals and scents and tastes as wonderful as they were, it was still deadly. Intoxicating, fatal, poisonous. And the disease spread faster than Nutella on toast. 

How poisonous she was, Tom did not discover until her pollen was left behind, leaving a bitter aftertaste in his mouth as pressure from the heat settled and sizzled to nothing, realization kicking in that she was gone and her absence did nothing but destroy. And destruction was merciless, especially for the person that had prompted it all. Tom built a machine he doesn't know how to stop; it's self destruction in the worst way. 

Four weeks had passed since she had walked out. Four weeks since Tom had fallen asleep in the doorway in the middle of the hallway, hoping to wake up from the nightmare disguised as a daydream. But it wasn't a daydream, and it wasn't a nightmare. Because this is real life, and he supposed losing her was worse than pining after her. At least then, he had her in his life. And now.. he isn't even sure on where he stands. He's stopped standing actually. Instead, he'd been pushed off the edge, the cliff with a drop so deep only Earth knew the end's location. He supposed again, that he's still falling. Because after the drop, there's a whole layer of rock bottom, and directly under that, is a new layer of crap and waste and vile memories, building and forming and making the Tom today. Angry, melancholic, heartbroken, remorseful and regretful. His happiness is just about as bright as the broken nightlight in the corner of the bedroom. 

The echo of knuckles against wood rings through the house, alerting Tom that somebody is at the door. And though he knows it's unrealistic, he wishes and prays and hopes to god that it's her, coming back like the boomerang she is. It isn't.

"Tom? Mate? It's me and Harry," Harrison calls out, cautiously stepping through the doorway and shutting the door quietly behind Harry, the lock clicking as they placed the drinks down. They stopped at Nando's on the way to Tom's, knowing he probably resorted to coffee and mashed potatoes as his main filler. 

"Bro, where are you?" Harry sounded, placing his cap on the table by the couch, the two of them venturing further into the house until reaching the slump body on the ground in the den. Tom's hair is disheveled, his eye lids drooping, accompanied with dark, heavy bags. 

"Get up," Harrison nudges Tom with his foot, and Tom groans in annoyance before picking himself up and standing in front of the two boys. 

"The fuck do you two want?" he rubs at his eyes, dragging his feet to the kitchen for a glass of coffee -- it's a lot easier to whip up than tea. At least, in his opinion it is, because if his tea isn't perfect than he doesn't want to go through the hassle of preparing it just to be disappointed and let down at the first sip.