Shadows crept along the sides of his features, grotesquely blending eerily well with the black, heavy set murky depths of his soulless eyes. Breathing ominously silent, his chest rose gently, the beat of his pulse fluttering in a rhythmic, calming pace. Lips twisted into a deep frown, his jaw clenched, mind blissfully empty despite the acidic words that bubbled up from his tongue.
Time slowed.
"Excuse me?" Pat spat, the question sounding as though it was being ground out through gritted teeth.
Without answering, Tom stood up leisurely- movements quiet, and measured, similar to how a predator assesses its prey. Bright splashes of neon green highlighted his features, moulding fluidly with the tight muscles of his face, emphasising the gaping, empty pits of his sockets. Brows furrowed, the haunting glow of the light seeped into the deep winding grooves of his pale flesh, filling in the long lines of exhausted sorrow that engraved his being.
Craning his head, a few sharp crackling noises erupted from the tense joints in his tilted neck, grossly intense against the stillness of the room. Shoulders squared, they unfolded to their full length, wide and intimidating, stretching the thin fabric of his clothing.
Anxiety vanished.
Stalking forward, his stride was confidently even and filled with purpose, his gait oddly graceful. Bare feet slipped inaudibly against the floor, ghosting across the linoleum, each step equal in balance. Limbs flexed to his will, unguided by invisible puppet strings, consciousness at the forefront of his mind. A powerful feeling flowed from his core, control buzzing faintly in his veins, humming in a chorus.
This time was different.
Why was it different?
This was him.
Visibly disturbed, Pat flinched slightly, expression twinging in fear laced discomfort. Body rigged, he kept his chin up, internally struggling to maintain eye contact with that lifeless, burning glare.
"I suppose it depends on what you think constitutes as a cage," Tom spoke smoothly, mouth moving steadily as he articulated the words.
"What?" Pat hissed defensively, curled fist rasing up in a protective gesture. Confusion leaked into his voice, tone wobbling- but still stubbornly standing his ground.
"It doesn't matter how big it is; a cage is still a cage. I might have been moved from my cell, but I still can't leave. I'm still trapped here against my will, I can roam but I am not free." Tom continued, unhurried as he leaned closer, "I have never had the privilege to do as I want, so by your standards, I am living as the subhuman that you've deemed me as."
You can't escape your own head.
Blinking owlishly, Pat swallowed drily, a hitch in his throat, "That doesn't exclude you from-"
"You're angry," Tom interjected, completely ignoring any stuttered mumbling, "And you have every right to be- I maimed your leader and made an embarrassment of your army, you're furious and I'm at fault."
Mutely, Pat nodded in confirmation, chewing at the inside of his cheek. A cold sweat trickled from his brow, circling his skin.
Amused, Tom sighed a laugh. It sounded empty and bitter on his ears, "But can you tell me with absolute certainty that I wasn't justified? That if I hadn't personally held back your schedule, I wouldn't be hurt right now- or better yet, dead?"
"I don't-" Expression crumbling, his eyebrows slanted in panic, mouth curling in silent horror, "How... How do you know?"
"I didn't." Tom breathed, "But thank you for confirming."
Caught out, Pat opened his mouth gingerly, pausing in thought only to close it again with a defined clack of his teeth.
Silence reigned, blanketing the thick atmosphere in a choking stillness that ticked by slowly. Odd, squeaking beeps of machinery thrummed in the background, seemingly placed far into the distance, a dull roar in comparison to the heavy eye contact.
A door opened down below, thumping against the wall as a group of men piled into the operating room. Several surgeons spruced up in their scrubs filed in, each busying themselves with organising the tools and weird, alien-like technology. And finally, bringing up the rear in a pale white hospital gown stood Tord, who was being ushered into the middle of the fluorescent light, towards a surgical table.
Attention shifting from each other, both Pat and Tom watched the scene unfold, still standing close.
Tord looked up and quirked an incredulous eyebrow.
"Be a good boy, and behave whilst I'm gone, alright?"
Feeling ridiculous, Tom crossed his arms to his chest and moved backwards a respectable space. With a small smile, he waved down at him, mouthing a "Good luck!"
Smirking in response, Tord winked back, sitting down on the table, and bracing himself against the surface.
Pat shuffled awkwardly, clearly uncomfortable.
Pressing himself against the glass of the observation window, Tom placed his palm against it, fingers spread out as though he was trying to reach across and physically comfort his partner. Facial features softening, he rested his forehead against the smooth surface, gaze half-lidded as his body calmed. Abstract thoughts bubbled back to the forefront of his mind.
It should be worrying that Tord had become a sort of clutch for him, a dependency to live a normal life; a drug that shocked his oversensitive system.
Although, he was more worried about the fact he nearly made an army general piss himself out of fear whilst wearing a crop top and neon booty shorts.
Priorities, he guessed.
As Tord was pulled under, a mask slipping onto his face and breathing in the numbing gas, he turned back to look at Pat, who had been watching the intimate moment with a detached look of comprehension.
"For your information, Plan A was ruled out months again," Pat whispered. It sounded like a truce, a safety net of neutrality, "Red Leader scrapped it after a few weeks of living back at the house..."
Keeping his palm pressed on the glass, Tom absorbed the way in which Pat shifted his gaze, his own arms wrapped around his chest as he willed his mouth to move.
"I have a feeling it had something to do with you." He confessed quietly, tongue lulling as though it felt too heavy to manoeuvre properly, "You did something to him; he's sentimental now, weaker. That's not what a leader needs to be- you took a strong man, and you ruined him. So yes, you are at fault."
Snorting, Tom turned back around to peer through the window, analysing the surgeon's movements as though they were tiny, scuttling ants.
Tord looked so small, and frail under the thin sheets.
"Emotions don't make people weak," Tom uttered, focusing on his warped reflection, "Repressing who you truly are? It hurts- it rots you from the inside and sucks all the joy from your life. And isn't that what life is about? Enjoying yourself? Being happy?"
The sound of his laughter.
The curl of his lips.
The crinkle in his eyes.
The dimple on his cheek.
"That isn't the life that he chose, " Pat retorted stiffly, a certain darkness lingering in his tone, "That isn't the life he dedicated years to- and to throw it all away, for you of all people, is a mistake he'll regret."
Swallowing roughly, Tom saw the way his own expression crumbled, lids slitting as his lips caved inwards.
"You're going to be the death of me."
The words had never sounded so cruel.
—
A/N: Guys, Samantha killed herself.
~In the arms of the angels~
But seriously. I found her face down in a bucket of water. The bitch drowned, what the fuck.
This chapters fanart was gifted by the user @TheGeekyWeaboo !
I've been wanting to draw this scene myself and honestly? 10/10
Thanks again! <333