Physical therapy took time- a resource that they didn't particularly have an abundance of.
Days stretched into a blurred mess of colour, thick lines of monotony sluggishly blending in with the mundanity of everyday life; agonisingly slow, and yet unnervingly fast pace. Uselessly falling through his fingers like fine grains of sand, time trickled into a near constant anxiety, a slow burn that niggled on the murky edges of his vision, lurking just beneath the frazzled nerves of his sweat-slicked skin. It pooled cruelly at his feet, slowly building up into large mounds of worry, piling higher and higher as his restlessness for progress grew exponentially. Creeping up his exhausted body, the ever-present knowledge of his own stalling incompetence itched at his lungs, choking him from the inside out as he wriggled and thrashed, desperate to claw himself out of the heaving weight of maddening responsibility that was slowly crushing him.
Each week that swept by, every month that was gradually crossed off- it all merged together in an amalgamation of bitter fear, the overly aware notion that the Volkov family were still a very real, looming threat. Cooped up within the towering walls of the compound, Tom was encased within a little bubble of immunity, safe from most impending personal threats, but trapped with the grasping knowledge that without action, other people were being used, and abused- much in the same manner he had been. Guilt had become synonymous with breathing, suffocating and endless as self-loathing rattled his empty skull.
Tord didn't seem to be doing much better.
Trudging through a thick fog of irritated hysteria and grating impatience, Tord had become a whirlwind of acidic burning rage- a prisoner of his own uncooperative body. Frustrated with the slow progress, and the steadily mounting pressure of being perceived as a strong, no-nonsense leader, everything had bubbled over into a frothing chaotic mess of seething violence.
Tom counted the seconds, waiting for the exact moment the man would burst a blood vessel- wound tight, and high strung; he probably pissed blood out of his eyes from the long period of anger he was experiencing. Jaw clenched into a strained scowl, lips hissed wild atrocious threats, leaking over his features like liquid poison- sizzlingly black that went straight for the jugular. Narrowed into squinted slits, the swirling silver depths did nothing to conceal the untamable lust for power and the craving desire for the slow painful end for everything in sight. Rasping breath huffed out of flared nostrils, teeth bared in a feral grin, skin stretched almost unnaturally from the aggravated snarl that twisted his features.
Over the course of several weeks, Tom had rapidly lost count of the number of times a soldier had openly started weeping in front of their pissy superior- mouths pressed into tight, wobbly lines that hiccuped salt, armoured bodies trembling in a regressed state of terror as they absorbed the fiery foaming rage that seeped through the cracks of their leader's usually detached foundation. Seemingly, the entire army appeared to be walking on proverbial eggshells around him, creeping past inconspicuously, keeping their heads down and lists of offences clear.
No one wanted to be the next target.
Especially Tom.
Although he had been relatively excluded from the absolute minefield that he had somehow managed to tiptoe his way through, he knew that eventually, somewhere across the line, he would be the next victim of a destructive tongue-lashing that would make suicide the only viable option. Having the fear of authority beaten into him as a child, perhaps it should worry him of the borderline sexual nature of his submissive tendencies- then again, it was probably one of the only reasons he was currently alive, so perhaps he should be thankful for being the bitch boy that he was.
Deep down, from the far corner of his mind, it thoroughly unnerved him how reminiscent Tord's behaviour seemed- an unsettling echo of his father's mistreatment. The thought alone never failed to keep him up at night, laying rigid among the soft sheets as the snorting beast grunted behind him in sleep.
It had to be put to an end- after weeks of sitting in agonised silence, something had to give.
He really needed to pull out the stick that was lodged up his ass.
-
Leaning against the bland white walls of the medical ward, Tom absentmindedly wondered how long he would be able to pointedly avoid going into Mcintyre's office.
Ever eager to display his willing support and understanding, Tom couldn't refuse the invitation to accompany Tord to his therapy sessions. With guilt gnawing at his insides like a churning mass of maggots, his screeching self-worth issues blatantly dismissed any notion to deny the man anything- especially when it came down to problems Tom was very obviously the root cause of.
Compassion only ran so deep, however.
Given the fact that even the barest hint of disinfectant drove him into a fit of nervous trembling, Tom hadn't set foot into a single medical room since Tord had been released from care. Between the implications of being a very irrefutably useful lab rat, and the creeping mistrust of any medical personnel, he didn't feel like being put under a microscope any time soon. Constant needle punctures and Substance D, of all things, had been his entire childhood at one point; left to rot away under the guise of developing a stronger human race- he wasn't going to allow his father's legacy to engulf his future too.
Not yet, at least.
Humming an off-beat trumpet solo under his breath, Tom shuffled in place, arms crossed against the slim expense of his chest as he waited loyally. Head tilted against the smooth wall, he kept his eyes closed, the gloomy pits of his sockets sheltered from the blaring fluorescent lights that hung over him heavily. Scanning the raw red lines that ran across his blocked vision, he strained his ears, ease dropping on the rather loud argument taking place in the room behind him.
Filtered bits of gruff Norwegian seeped in under the door, leaking into the hallway like a muffled trickling of water. Rasping and fast-paced, it was near impossible to deconstruct, several screaming voices layered over each other in a shrieking cacophony of anger.
Apparently, not even his pseudo army parents were immune to the hair-trigger temper that Tord refused to keep restrained.
It was sad, really- but surprisingly fitting.
Communism was about equality, after all.
Something had to give.
Off-handedly, Tom considered, once again, if he should bother attempting to learn the language. Either to be completely fluent or to perhaps understand a few important phrases- he couldn't deny the fact that the skill would probably be useful down the road.
Of course, decoding handwritten notes and official planning drafts would probably be something that he should have a keen interest in; if not for security sake, then for viable bargaining information. But, as the incredibly petty, and fabulously gay mess that he was, Tom couldn't resist daydreaming about the actual reasons behind learning Norwegian.
Cynical and salty- imagining the number of insults and petty arguments he could win in a different language would be euphoric. Being snarked at by Pat wouldn't be an issue anymore; because he would be able to clap back with his own unbridled sass, and watch as the unfiltered horror filled the other's eyes- beaten by an autist? Most unorthodox.
Although, all things considered, that wasn't his favourite motive. Enraptured by warm, gooey feelings of affection, Tom couldn't help but picture a scenario where he would eventually greet Tord with a love confession- how openly raw and special it would be when uttered in his native tongue. A solid piece of evidence that proved his feelings- how sincere he could be through hard work and dedication to his partner.
"You're not stupid. Your brain just works differently, and I want you to remember that from now on."
Maybe that was his chance to prove those words to be true.
It's not like he didn't have the time spare, or anything.
To his right, a sudden bang was heard; feeling the hard vibrations through the splayed reachings of his fingertips. Outwardly cringing, his mouth set into a hard frown, lids tightening as the door slammed open, nearly being pulled off of its rickety hinges as it thumped loudly into the wall. Irritated, scowling conversation drifted closer, the heavy stomping of boots doing nothing to disguise the hot white anger that filled the other.
Bad day?
Not bothering to look, Tom heard the person start to stumble down the hallway, a snarled, "Knull av, Pau!" practically echoing through the compound.
A domestic; lovely.
A heavy, exasperated sigh sounded next to him, followed by another pair of scuffling boots and the soft click of a closing door. Anticipating who it was, Tom slit his eyes open and turned his head to meet Pau's troubled gaze.
Quirking an eyebrow, it seemed to convey several million different words- ones that Pau appeared to understand completely. With a wary shake of the head, the other grunted in greeting, rubbing a rough line underneath the large, black bags that clung to his sockets.
"Are you okay?" Tom found himself muttering, a stupid question on all accounts, but necessary nonetheless.
"M'fine." Pau grumbled back, hands tightly clenched into hidden fists inside his pockets, "No one else seems to be though."
Tom hummed in agreement, nodding vaguely in reply.
"Pat's just-" Snorting, Pau shook his head again, clearing his throat sharply as he kicked irritably at the clean tile, "He's not a bad person- he's not, he's just worried and angsty and-"
Silence rained, and Tom didn't dare to break it with- leaving that responsibility for the other to decide on. Implications and half-truths lingered in the stiff air, circling around them in a tired haze; phrases that he didn't care to admit to only understand partially.
"I want my husband back." Came the rasping confession, soft and profound, a deep sense of sadness coiling shyly with the words.
It was enough to damn near break his heart.
Opening his mouth, Tom couldn't find anything suitable in his jumbled mess of a brain that would be anywhere near the support and reaffirmation that Pau was desperately searching for. Something lodged in his throat, blocking any sort of possible speech, and he closed it with a solid clack of teeth, looking away awkwardly.
Seconds ticked by; emphasised by the dull thudding in his throat, before Pau pivoted in place, rubber squeaking as a finality as he shifted in place- an almost defeated look twisted on his miserable expression.
"I need a cigarette."
--
A/N: This took *checks unused text files* five tries to write- am I happy with it? Am I f u c k
For anyone left out of the loop, I had an art contest for Strawberry Panic! This is the winning entry, from the lovely MB_Demon_King !
I still can't get over how cute it is.
Translation:
"Knull av, Pau!" - "Fuck off, Pau!"