TomTord/TordTom oneshots

Clouds, the awful, unneeded remake

This is a remake of 'Clouds' (if anyone even knows that lmao) with a completely different concept and storyline. Also no other parts (unless you want it... just say the word, baby *wink wonk*). I just kind of took the title and ran with it.

Oh well, enjoy!!
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The room was smoky, dingy and dim. The grease-stained walls were grey. Everything was grey. The rough carpet beneath my sock covered toes. The broken, lopsided coffee table. The full ashtrays and the ash that spilled out of them.

The wallpaper was discoloured in places from the almost constant trail of smoke; yellow-y and gross. The place stank of sweat and dope. The lingering scent of cheap, shitty sex floated from the bedroom, almost masked by the one of dirty plates and cutlery in the sink. It was a place of poverty and misery. Fried-brained addicts lurked in every apartment, each accepting the fate of a nothing life. It was a cycle.

A rollie perched between my fingers, the heavy stink of weed clung to my unwashed clothes. I was skinny from it, my t-shirt oversized on my bony arms. The telly hummed in front me, the light being the only vibrancy there. I wasn't paying attention, too stoned to notice, nor care.

I wondered where he was. Passed out in a ditch, I suspect. It made me ill just thinking about it. I wanted him to care, more than anything else. To be on time for once. To not stumble in at fuck-knows-what time in the morning, with a vomit-stained shirt and two red tainted eyes.

I had been dreaming of someone since I was small. Of kisses and roses and heart-shaped chocolate boxes and love. Instead, I got a drunk who doesn't know his feet from his face. Sure, he was loveable, I guess. When he was sober.

Sometimes, I wanted to leave. And often, I almost did. He didn't need to know about the suitcase under the bed, or the secret stash of money behind the sofa. I missed Norway. This wasn't what I'd been looking for when I came to England. If anything, it was stability I had always lacked. And being left alone sure hadn't helped.

I was wallowing in my own filth and despair. The most recent hookup had left, and it was shit. I barely came. I wanted Tom, I fucking needed him. Fat, hot tears leaked from my almost closed eyes as I continued to stare blankly at the screen. Ah, pot always made me sentimental. My thin arms wrapped around my knees as I rested my head on them. I felt like a little kid. Lost in this big, scary world, no idea where I'm going, just trying to stay afloat.

I ached. I ached for relief and to be soothed. I ached for him, and his touch. I ached for my youth's dreams, for the sturdy stability that I would be ok, that I would be pulled from my own nauseating mess. That I would be saved.

When I got like this, I liked to remember the first time we met. I don't even know if it was really what happened, if it was just some conjured up, golden version of him. But it was comforting either way.

It was some secondary school party, and I had crashed for the hell of it. Fifteen was cheap thrills, and this was the usual. He was in a corner, awkward and gangly, taking up just too much space, half-empty cup in hand, self-conscious expression across his face. He was perfect. Dumped by his date, left to fend for himself in unknown territory, looking for someone. And, I would be that someone.

He was cute and nervous in the best way, all chaste kisses and blushing hand holds. He would take me to fucking mcdonalds and then make out with me in the car park. He was every teenage fantasy, or at least mine. He didn't use me or hide me, he was caring and happy. And he made me happy too.

I call that the before. Before the stress of real life. Before the time we had left for good, now without our parents' safety net, now without promise of money or food, just bills and late night shifts with barely minimum wage jobs. At first it was fun, exploring the world and exploring myself with him. We had each other, and we were still happy. Then he lost. I don't know if it was depression, or just the lustful longing to drown, but he turned to drink for comfort. Turned away from me.

My fingers shakily clicked the remote, switching the channels to something even slightly more engaging then whatever rubbish had been on just before. I was unsteady, mind slipping in and out of graceful sanity. I was swimming in murky darkness, no light to guide me, no god to help me out. I guess he stops caring about people like me. Do we put ourselves in these situations? Or is it the unlucky fate of addiction-prone brains and sloppy decisions? Was it my fault?

Tom used to tell me I thought too much. That if I let the words churn around and around in my head too much, they would stop being words all together, just discombobulated soup. Like mashed potato. My brain is mashed po-fucking-tato. I hate mashed potato.

Every little hum from the box in front of me, or the creaks from upstairs was amplified, echoing through my ears, joining the ever-growing slush that swamped my head. The room was becoming blurry and I couldn't tell if it was the thick smog that settled around the ceiling or my waning vision.

Wishing with every cell in my body that the door handle would turn, I felt like I was melting, further and further into the dank fabric of the sofa. I hated him. I hated him more than I thought I could. He was the cause of my raging mental turmoil. He was the thing tenderly eating away at my heart. But I knew full well that when he stumbled through that door, I would coo and fuss over his stupid shit-faced state. I'd take his coat and kiss his hair, leading him to bed, clean, fresh sheets on it. And in the morning I would fetch aspirin and water for his headache and let him thaw my furious boundaries, dragging me into his clumsy arms, whispering his stupid words against my skin and I would remember why I fell in love with him. Forgetting the cruel pain of last night, repressing my tears for another day, letting him have me. Maybe I would gain nothing in return, but I was wanted. And that's all I could really ask for.

A small snort escaped me, a mixture of amusement and annoyance.

I should really change those sheets now.

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Whoosh have this. Erm, depressed stoners are my favourite genre of human. He deserves better tbh, poor guy. But they're both doing bad things, so.

Normally it takes me weeks to write one of these, but I cracked this one out in two days, so sorry if it's a bit shit and/or all over the place.

Jazz hands?

Word count- 1225