a collection

SCISSORS (12/19/17)-(1/18/18) [eddsworld fanfic]

Tom hated doing this.
 It was already bad enough that he had to talk to this freak on a regular basis again, and seeing how horribly Tom'd deformed him didn't help with the burning guilt that seared in his chest each night.
He just wished Commie'd died in the explosion; it would've made things much easier.
 ... That's a lie. He was so releived when he realized Tord was still alive. He loved seeing his face everyday, hearing his laugh (although it was never as genuine as when they were kids), studying the good half of his face, just taking in his intricate features.
 But he could never admit that. Tom was doomed to eternal silence.
 Tom coughed as he let the searing smoke exhale through his nostrils, unused to such a feeling. It did feel good afterword, though. Tom had secretly taken up smoking shortly after Tord came back, along with his alcoholism becoming much worse. He hadn't slept in days, his movements sluggish and his tone eternally laced with spite at whomever poor soul tried to reason with him. It's like he'd fallen into a dark hole that swallowed him up and numbed him to the point of sociopathy. Until he saw Tord, that is. When Tom saw him, he immediately felt better, his heart swelling into his throat, yet dropping into his stomach as he saw the bandaged scars that reminded him of what he'd been through-- what Tom had deliberately done.
 It was his turn to bandage Tord, and he never looked forward to it. It always started and ended the same way-- Tom would come in, silent, and coldly ask if his scars had gotten better. Tord would then shake his head, and silently hand Tom the scissors to cut the bandages. Tom did this also silently, occasionally apologizing if he hurt him. Then, he would leave. No eyecontact at all. Every single time, for the past month, maybe year-- the days were simply a blur to Tom now-- nothing had been said between the two except empty and repetitive consoling.
 And every time, it skewered Tom's heart.
 Tom dropped the cigar he'd stolen from Tord onto the concrete, stomping out the flame. He took in a shakey breath; here we go again...
 Tom's hand trembled as he reached out for the doorhandle to Tord's room, and to his surprise, someone opened it for him. Tom looked up and saw Tord's wearing smile looking back at him. He was wearing his red, stitched hoodie, which he hadn't been seen in for a whike, due to it being quite difficukt to move the left half of his body. "Old friend; how are you? You look like shit."
 Tom took a moment to collect his thoughts. "So do you, shithead."
 Excitement pulsated through Tom's veins; this was the first real conversation the pair had had in a long time. Yet it followed up eith immediate confusion and worry; what had changed, so suddenly? Was he alright?
 Before Tom could say anything, Tord ushered him into the room. "Please, come in."
 The room had hardly changed since he'd last been there; architecual plastered to the walls and scattered across the floor, a tsundoku of books and papers of gibberish made it increasingly difficult to move about the room. It was also strange, how the piles upon piles of books and paperwork grew with each visit, yet Tord hardly ever left his room, as far as he knew. Tom immediately had to awkwardly walk around a pile of paper about half the size of him as he walked in.
 "Jesus, Tord, do you need a maid or somethin'?" Tom joked. "It's an organized mess," Tord replied, easily making his way through the maze of scrappaper, whilst Tom had nearly fallen over at least twelve times since they'd come in.
 As Tom was in the process of stepping over the final pile of books and paper, something caught Tom's eye. On the table, next to Tord's computer, there were a few screws, a screwdriver, knuts and bolts. As if Tord had been building or repairing something...
  Suddenly, Tom yelped as he fell to his knees. He'd tripped over the final stack of paper, scattering them randonly accross the already trash-ridden floor.
 "Oh, dammit, Tom..." Tord sighed as he kneeled to help pick the papers up. As Tom was frantically stacking the papers, he stopped to look at a few strange ones.
 Blueprints, Tom thought, for some sort of robotic arm...?
Just then, Tord abruptly snatched the papers out of Tom's hands with such force that it startled Tom. "Old plans," Tord mused, following up with a nervous chuckle.
 It wasn't new, Tom knew. He'd seen the date, and it read only a week after the explosion.

(And that's all she wrote. Shouls I even continue this?)