Strawberry Panic {TomTord}

Ding dong, you are wrong

Then again, Tord was a natural- he didn't need to try, he just was. 

Yawning lethargically, Tord had thrown a new pair of boxers in his direction- dark blue and covered in tiny origami swans. Slipping them on gratefully underneath his own towel, he attempted to dry his hair like a normal person before quickly deciding that was lame, and simply shook his head wildly like a dog instead. He got an eye roll and a huffed snort of amusement for his efforts, but at least his hair bounced back to its usual spikey state. 

"Are you going to give me more to wear, or am I going to blind half of your workforce with the sight of my pale ass body?" 

"As tempting as that is-" Tord trudged past him, a blank look on his face. Rounding on the built-in wardrobe, he paused at the handle, fingers curling around the brass knob, "-we may have a problem here." 

With a dramatic flair, he wrenched open the door, the wood colliding into the wall with a dull thump, revealing the sad, meagre contents within. 

Hidden within the darkness, on a single metal pole screwed hastily into the plaster, hung three freshly put away uniforms, each iron pressed and professionally neat. A pair of boots sat beneath them, well looked after and religiously polished. On the other side in the far corner were four shirts, each one in a different state of general disrepair- either with holes eaten into the old fabric, or covered in dust, the various obnoxious pastel anime references were cut off in places, the low-quality stickers flaking from age.

After a long, considering silence, Tom turned towards the other man, a sceptical eyebrow raised. Tord met his look with a thoughtful expression, toeing the line of guilty.  

"Don't freak out, but-" He stopped mid-sentence, pausing to take in Tom's unamused expression, "Don't lie to yourself, Thomas, you freak out over everything-"

Huffing, Tom coughed slightly, trying unsuccessfully to clear the air. With a downward twitch of the mouth, he looked deliberately at the wardrobe, chewing the inside of his cheek as he roughly interjected, "You were saying?"

"You might have to wear one of my uniforms- " Rolling his eyes, Tord looked back at the clothes, quirking a thumb at the small selection, "I have to stress that it doesn't mean that you're in my army, or a soldier. You are your own person, and you are covering your weirdly girlish body out of necessity."  

"I know." He really did know- Tord wasn't the sort of person to prostitute himself out in order to recruit and guide a very literal monster into his gang. The thought of him doing it in that way was ridiculous- but he did appreciate his consideration for Tom's blatant anxiety, even if he did it in an asshole standoff-ish kind of way, "It doesn't have to symbolise anything." 

"I know." Tord echoed, immediately soothed. Smirking slightly, he pulled one down from its hanger, unfolding the matching shirt, trousers and overcoat.  

Twenty awkward minutes and an explosive giggle fit later, the pair had decided that actually, no, Tom could not wear a uniform. Since the two had painfully different body shapes, he was pretty much doomed from the beginning.  Everything was too big; from the overly baggy fabric of the shirt to the trousers that had to be turned up several inches so they wouldn't drag along the floor-  it was a mess. Keeping up appearances as a strong leader was significantly harder when he had to have a small pile laundry follow him around like a lost puppy. 

With nowhere else to turn, Tom really had no option but to borrow one of Tord's long-abandoned otaku merch- as much as it hurt him to do so. Pulling one of them from the rack, he flinched, giving the other man a pointed stare.

"It's like you plan these things to happen," Tom grumbled, looking at the off-white material in his hands, thumbs rubbing into the soft texture of the cotton.