After practically skipping home (rain be damned), Tom had only a few days to comfortably settle into the life of being a cross-dresser.
First was the voice.
Despite being quite short and relatively unmasculine (apart from the randomly combusting beard trick. He decided that didn't count though since that was more of a mutation; kind of like his eyes), he had always gotten compliments on his deep voice. Past girlfriends had told him that it was rather soothing and comforting; something that they could easily fall asleep to. Tom thought it was a load of horse apples- but he sucked it up anyway as it was a source of positive attention, which he didn't get to indulge in very often.
He had gotten into a routine of practising a higher, softer pitch during the nights. Picking certain time slots between Edd tumbling into bed, and Matt getting up to use the bathroom every other hour. Paranoid over the fact that he could wake one of them up with his near constant onesided chatter hovered insistently over his head, causing him to be extra quiet.
Progress was slow.
Being the pessimist that he is, he would say that it wasn't going very well. Sure, the exercise had taught him how to sound gentler, but overall, he didn't sound like a girl. It sounded fake- like a guy turning to pull off a feminine voice, which is exactly what it was, but it still annoyed him nonetheless.
Maybe he could get away with it if he didn't talk too loudly?
Between practising and trying to keep up the appearance that he was totally not harbouring a dangerous secret that mainly consisted of fishnet stockings and eight inch high heels (yikes, that's one hell of an image), he was looking up beauty guru videos on YouTube.
Studying how different blonde basic teenagers did their makeup was boring beyond belief, and he'd actually fallen asleep quite a few times with his phone screen down, laying flat across his sweaty face. It wasn't for nothing though, he'd learnt how to blend foundation and apply basic eyeliner.
Hopefully, he'd be able to translate that into execution.
A lot of his life seemed to revolve around blind hope and shrugged maybes.
Maybe it wouldn't be like that anymore. Maybe this strange little job was the turning point in his life. Maybe it would all turn out to be alright and he magically won't have depression anymore.
Maybe.
He shrugged.
Tom focused his attention on another employment necessity that he had yet to go through properly. It was pointless and overly tedious- but, if he was actually honest with himself, he would say that he really doesn't trust himself to shave his own legs (especially around the ankles; they were really hard to reach).
Sighing softly, Tom re-adjusted his leg position on the bathroom counter, cringing slightly at the uncomfortable strain in his hamstrings. His skin was slick with shaving cream, and it made it so much harder to keep a tight, secure pose that didn't cause him to slip on the marble as he concentrated. Knowing that this experience was either going to end with him giving up due to muscle cramps, or slipping over didn't comfort him in the least.
It was so hard being a girl.
Snorting, he carried on, sliding the razor across his skin carefully, hopping slightly when he needed to regain his balance. It fell into a rhythm, and he slowly fell into his thoughts, his grip on reality loose.
He mostly did this when he was walking, or listening to music; the slow hum of monotony pulling him into a world inside his head. A place where he was in charge; a place that was balanced, controlled, certain.
So lost in his own thoughts, he didn't hear the fast-paced thumping of footsteps that pounded down the hallway towards him, nor the scream that accompanied it. He did, however, notice the tall body that kicked its way into the bathroom, the previously closed door swinging violently into the wall as it was nearly propelled off of its hinges.
Tom screamed in surprise, swung his still soapy limb from its position, and pressed his back tightly against the counter, his razor held out in front of him in a way in which he hoped was threatening. He was met with Matt's upset, and slightly confused face, his jaw slack as he struggled to take in the image.
" MATT, HOLY MATCHSTICK IN A CANDLE FACTORY, WHAT WAS THAT FOR?" Tom released a breath that he didn't know he was holding and relaxed his posture, his grip around the razor a loose fist.
"TORD SAID I HAD A ZIT!" Matt just as ferociously squawked back, his hands flying to his face in distress, "THE BATHROOM HAS THE CLOSEST MIRROR."
Annoyed, Tom regarded him for a few seconds, and crossed his arms to his chest, "Ignore him, Matt, he's just being a dick. You're fine."
Momentarily calmed, Matt blinked slowly, before squinting at his appearance in the mirror over Tom's shoulder. Gently running his hands down his own face, fingers taking their time to hover over every inch in order to find a hint of imperfection. When finding none, he grinned happily and winked at his reflection.
"How could I doubt you, you handsome devil"
Huffing, Tom shook his head, feeling relatively awkward at being interrupted. Should he carry on, or just wait until he leaves?
A side glance to his left told him that the latter option would not happen for a long while, seemingly absorbed with preening and flirting at his own reflection. He grumbled under his breath, he wasn't even going to get an apology for scaring a running joke out of him.
Shaking his head, he placed his leg back into its original position and got back to work. He went through the motions in a comfortable silence, blocking out everything around him. It took him several moments to realise that he was being stared at.
He blinked, "What?"
"Who taught you to shave?" Matt asked, looking down at his half smooth, half hairy limb, nibbling at his bottom lip in thought, "You're really bad at it."
Tom baulked in surprise, looking down at his handy work.
"What?" He repeated.
Matt shook his head, smiling softly as he gestured with a pointed finger, "You're not doing it in straight lines- you're leaving patches of hair everywhere."
"Uh-"
"Here." Matt took his wrist gently and ushered him to sit on the closed toilet, seating himself down opposite him on the corner of the bathtub. He patted his lap in encouragement and after a few beats of hesitation, hoisted up his leg.
Taking control of the razor, Matt started humming, dragging the tool in neat little rows without much effort, "Like this, see?"
Tom hummed back in response, still feeling quite awkward and embarrassed. He didn't know whether it was due to the fact that he couldn't even shave properly, or the fact that he had been chided by the dumbest person that he knew.
Wrinkling his nose, he frowned. That wasn't fair. His dumbass didn't know how to do basic hygiene, he felt as though he wasn't allowed to judge.
The following moments were calm and companionable, filled with Matt's absentminded humming. Tom felt his eyes slide shut, and leaned his head back, thoroughly relaxed, allowing himself to go limp as it made the job easier.
"Finished!" Matt chirped, grabbing a nearby towel, and began to wipe away the excess foam.
Tom straightened from his sitting position, "Thanks, Ma-"
"Looking good, ladies."
Jerking up in surprise, Tom swivelled his head around to glare in Tord's direction, "How long have you been here, Commie?"
Tord stepped further into the now very cramped room, looking every bit relaxed as he leaned back with a smirk, hands resting in his front hoody pockets.
"Long enough." Was his dry, quick response.
"If you need to piss all you had to do was knock-"
Ignoring him, Tord leaned down, invading his space as he reached out and started to lightly stroke his bare leg. Caressing gently, and moving deliberately slowly, Tord kept his intense stare locked on his eyes.
Tom blushed brightly, his whole face tinting a hot flushing red. The intimate touches left a pleasurable heated tingle that crackled across his skin and left a rush of goosebumps that trailed after his fingers. The hand was steady and gentle, his thumb rubbing his soft flesh in a tender circle motion. Blood bubbled behind his ears, and his stomach flipped uncontrollably in his stomach, his heart pounding distractingly loud in his chest.
He felt his breath hitch in his throat.
He couldn't move. He couldn't speak.
He was paralysed.
Tord's smirk widened, as his gaze grew heavy-lidded, his palm curling around and resting on his ankle, "So smooth. Good job."
The compliment was obviously aimed at Matt, who was watching the scene with a hint of knowing- but he still didn't turn around to address the ginger, keeping his eyes glued to Tom's.
Tension so thick that it could be cut with a knife, Edd's sudden shout from across the house caused all three of them to twitch in surprise.
"Tord! Are you calling them for dinner, or what?!"
The man in question snorted, shook his head, and leaned back. Turning around to walk out of the room, he pulled a thick cigar from his pocket and placed it to his lips. He shot a measured, "You heard the man." behind his back before he started towards the kitchen.
Once he had left, Tom lowered his leg to the floor, the cold tile leaching the heat that had once been there and causing a shiver to run down his spine. Suddenly, all of the air that was sucked out of the room flooded back at full force and Tom gasped for breath.
Matt looked at him, alarmed, "Are you alright?"
No, his mind screamed.
"Yes." He said instead.
Matt paused, before nodding. He stood up, checked himself in the mirror one last time, before following Tord's lead.
Tom sat there, hunched over on the cold porcelain, head on his knees as he rasped. Sweat circled his skin, causing it to look pale and sickly. A tidal wave of emotion crashed through him, trembling at the nauseous mix of feelings.
What the absolute fuck was that?