Archive of Our Own

“Oh, shut up!”

By the time Tom's hands are on his chest, Tord can’t even remember what he was saying. Something to piss him off — no doubt about it — but it works. Tom had been turning to leave the room, something Edd was always insisting he do to be the more mature person, or whatever. Before Tom can cross the threshold and make it down the hallway to where his room is and where he won’t leave until their other housemates get home, Tord calls after him in a desperate attempt to get him within arm’s reach.

It works.

Like always.

He’s being shoved backwards, stumbling on his own heels as he goes flying into the wall behind him. He didn’t remember being so close to it.

The shock shoots through him faster than the pain can. His eyes — wide for a split second — squeeze shut on instinct, the impact rattling his teeth. It doesn’t hurt too much, but the injury itself is an insult — even if it’s also his small and sought-after victory. His eyes snap back open.

Tom has his arms lowered back down to his sides, hands trembling. Otherwise, he looks nearly impassive — annoyed, at best. Tord knows better. He knows what he does to Tom, and that he’s the only one who can do it right. Tom’s got his jaw tensed and his brows knit low together, the black piercing on his left brow following. His empty sockets bore matching holes in Tord’s gaze, zeroed in like he’s won the fight already and takes little pride in it.

Tord says nothing — couldn’t find the words if he tried — so Tom speaks again.

“Why don’t you just leave me alone?” Tom shouts, frustration welling up and breaching the lip of the glass that contains it. “Why can’t you? It’s like you’re drawn to me, pissing me off because it’s the only fucking thing you’re good at.”

Tord’s won the match by starting the game, but now he’s playing a new round. “The only thing I’m good at? That’s rich coming from you.”

Tom looks indignant, lips twitching in a way that reveals to Tord the words he stifles quickly: what the hell is that supposed to mean? But he decides that he doesn’t want to know — that he can’t. He steps back like he’s going to turn away, so Tord fires another shot.

“Every time I make you angry, you put your hands on me. You can’t seem to make a single comeback; you’re not very good with words, are you? Hah!” Tord laughs, the sound coming out more like spitting blood from a bitten tongue on the pavement. “Classic, stupid—”

Yet again, Tord’s moving without deliberation — not by the will of himself. Tom’s got the front of his hoodie balled up in his fist and he’s being wrenched forward like a flimsy ragdoll, face to face with a man who’s seething. Tom’s livid, his pearly white teeth dangerously close to Tord’s nose. If he’s not careful, he’ll have a feature bitten off in two seconds flat.

“Don’t fucking start with that bullshit again,” he snaps through gritted teeth. “I’m warning you.”

Something in the pit of Tord’s stomach curls perversely, hot and wound up tight. The fear only urges him on. “Oh, I’m terrified. I really am,” he mocks. “You make good on your promises, Tomas, but there’s nothing new with you. Always the same charade: you lash out, you threaten me, you lose.” Tord tries for another laugh, and is pleased that it doesn’t sound forced. “You swear you want me dead, but you’re too chickenshit to kill me.”

Tom’s eyes are wide with rage; the fist clenched in Tord’s hoodie trembles. “I’m too chickenshit?” He snarls, not yet pouncing but reared back on his haunches. “What about you? You’re always talking out of your ass, saying shit you know nothing about. All you do is insult me — you’re fucking obsessed!”

Something in Tord’s mouth curdles, going sour. “I’m not fucking obsessed with you!” He snaps, a nerve struck.

“You are! Is that what this is all about, then?” Tom is on a roll now, finding the metaphorical bruise and pressing his fingers into it as hard as he can. “Getting my attention? You don’t have to try so hard, you know. It makes you look desperate.”

Outrage sparks in his stomach, set alight with something reluctant. He slaps Tom’s hand off of him, suddenly needing to put distance between them. Tom doesn’t let him step away so easily.

“I don’t care about your worthless attention!” He retorts, voice too shrill for his liking. “I don’t even think about you.”

He betrays himself, speaking on a subject untouched by their feud. A Freudian slip, if you will. Thankfully, Tom’s much too fired up to notice. “You’re a terrible liar. Just horrible,” he scoffs. “If I’m so insignificant — if you don’t give a shit about me at all — then why waste your effort goading me?”

He doesn’t recognize the word, but he can easily surmise the meaning. When you’re angry, you’d be surprised at how anything can only serve to further enrage you. But this was worse than anger: Tord was backed into a corner, hidden truths buried deep beneath every word. He didn’t want to make himself an easier target, because he just hated to lose.

Especially to Tom.

“Because you’re so fucking easy,” he snaps, feeling himself even out a little. The blow lands. When Tom’s face changes — some slack expression that’s far beyond fuming — Tord feels himself begin to grin again.

That’s when a pain blossoms in the side of Tord’s face where ear meets cheek, a bony juncture that forms his jaw. Tom’s fist connects with it so hard that he goes sideways, stumbling into the nearby couch. His ribs hit the back of the plush red furniture in just the perfect spot to leave a nasty bruise. Tord keels over, eyes snapping open again only to find that Tom is staring this time, prepared for the second swing. He isn’t stupid enough to turn around and pretend the war was over — this becomes the catalyst.

Tom’s jaw moves as he grinds his teeth together. “Your voice pisses me off.”

Nobody is home to stop them. There’s no collar around either of their necks. It’s as if two dogs — lashing, snarling, and thrashing at their chains — have found a way to slip out of their binds.

And he’s nearly foaming at the mouth.

“[You fucking asshole!]” Tord shouts in a language Tom can’t understand, but a tone he very much can.

Tord lunges for the latter, whitened knuckles aiming straight for Tom’s nose. He’d always been skilled at throwing the punches: not always precise, but certainly quick. Tom, however, is much stronger.

He dodges Tord’s disoriented assault, lurching out of the way so that he only catches the highest point of Tom’s cheek. The little damage it does only fires him up more though, ducking in to grab a fistful of Tord’s hair and pulling him backwards.

Tord yelps, hand finding Tom’s on the back of his head and digging his nails into the tender flesh instinctively. With a closed fist, he throws a jab at Tom’s stomach, and it lands hard. The latter lets out some sort of cough, curling in on himself in just the slightest bit.

It should give Tord the advantage — what with Tom turning in on himself defensively, leaving offense wide open. Maybe it would have, if Tom hadn’t kept a steadfast grip in Tord’s hair.

He yanks the hand fisted in Tord’s hair down with him, and it stings. It stings even as Tom maneuvers them so that Tord’s flung over the back of the couch and thrown against the cushions with a blunt thud. It begins to ache as Tom climbs over the armrest and moves to straddle him, looming over him angrily and closing his freed hands around Tord’s throat.

Something shifts.

Tord’s wide eyed, staring up at Tom from his position on the couch. Beneath Tom, he can see the man’s hateful expression twisting up his face unpleasantly, his empty sockets searing Tord’s eyes down to the skull with how hard they’re staring. His teeth are gritted; the veins in his arms are bulging as he squeezes.

At this rate, he’ll kill him.

Tord swallows — or tries to, but his throat just pops grotesquely as the movement is prevented by the hands firmly asphyxiating him. He writhes a little, only just then occurring to him that he should resist. It’s futile, and it’s almost lackluster.

Sickeningly, Tord realizes that he isn’t trying to resist.

A vein in Tom’s forehead — just over his temple — appears, and Tom almost looks conflicted. He’s determined to end Tord right then and there, and yet he doesn’t want to do it. It’s not the taking of a life he fears, but rather something else Tord can’t place. Still, he presses the breath from Tord’s lungs as hard as he possibly can.

And oh god, does he look good doing it.

Tord tries to swallow again. Tom’s expression changes.

He’s always been good at reading Tord; the latter never hid an expression well. His emotions burned through any facade he could plaster over his face, like a match struck and held to thin cloth. Tom had always been the opposite: so good at concealing his emotions that the only time his thoughts showed through were when he was angry. Only then could Tord really tell what Tom thought of him.

The expression on Tord’s face must have been something unseen — or rather, it must not have matched the typical and customary fear of death that encroaches upon someone being strangled. Tom shifts, brows — already lowered — knitting together in his blooming confusion.

As he does so, his body goes rigid.

“What the fuck?”

Tord hadn’t realized it was happening. His attention had been diverted, his blood flow sluggish in his arteries as Tom’s fingers had curled around his neck and wrung it. How could he have been expected to realize that the blood had left his face and instead rushed south?

The hands around his neck loosen ever so, and Tord gasps on instinct, coughing and wheezing automatically. His head falls back against the couch, back slumping against the cushions as he relaxes and feels the air seep back into his lungs. Tom is still caught between remaining statuesque and scrambling back off of Tord. In his indecisiveness, he somehow shifts back slightly and Tord whines.

He whines.

Tom’s hands fly up off of his neck.

“Oh my god.” His face is contorted in horror. “What the fuck, Tord?”

“‘What the fuck’ me?” Tord manages, voice a bit strained. “You just tried to kill me!”

“You’re fucking hard!”

Tom’s right. Tord can’t see it — Tom’s still fucking straddling his midsection — but he can certainly feel his erection. It’s not even the stupid, accidental half-hard kind; Tord’s dick is straining in his pants, and Tom’s very unhelpfully pressed up against it.

Tord’s face is flushing, but he thinks that’s just from the strangulation. “It’s natural.”

Tom’s utterly mortified. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Tord groans as he brings a hand to his sore throat, only serving to frighten Tom. “I didn’t mean to, okay?”

“Didn’t mean to what? Get stiff while I was strangling you?” Tom scoffs indignantly. “This isn’t foreplay; I’m mad at you!”

“That’s the problem,” Tord hears himself say. He very promptly seals his lips shut.

There’s a moment of silence in which Tom stares down at him with a half-slack, half-surprised expression. Tord clears his aching throat, lying very carefully still. The house is empty, and he’s pinned under Tom; he’d rather not have to face an even more humiliating fate than he was already facing.

Tord spares a glance at Tom’s hands. Though they hover unsurely in the air, they no longer tremble.

And then Tom says, “God, you’re strange.”

When he dives forward again — when his hands find either side of Tord’s face — Tord thinks he’s finally met his end. He braces for impact with the little time he has before Tom leans down and crushes Tord’s lips against his own.

It’s as if he’s been electrocuted, a current beginning at his lips and rushing through him. It pulls all of his strength away, leeching any tension left in him and replacing it with pure shock. He’s stunned.

His eyes fly open, body going even more rigid if possible. Tom is kissing him, hands cupping his face firmly and surely as his nose bumps against Tord’s. The kiss is slow, long-lasting, and singular; Tom doesn’t pull away. He lingers on Tord’s lips like he’s awaiting the other’s response, whatever it may be.

The response comes when Tord kisses him back.

He doesn’t melt, per se — this isn’t inherently romantic. It can’t be. That’s not who they are; Tom and Tord have always hated each other, ever since the close friendship — a holdover they’d been nursing from their high school days — had wilted like an overwatered flower and rotted at the roots. So although he doesn’t feel that fuzzy, warm feeling filling his lungs like threadbare cotton, he tilts his chin up and wraps his arms around Tom, splaying his fingers over his back and tracing the broad expanse hungrily. He doesn’t melt — rather he winds himself around Tom like crossing wires in a splitter box.

Tom sort of grunts against his lips, and Tord remembers that he’s supposed to be angry with him. His throat still aches — ironic, since his pain is outright karmic. It’s why Tom was livid in the first place.

Though it’s deserved, Tord is nothing if not stubborn, begrudging, or petulant. His self-serving vengeance comes in its own way as he bites at Tom’s bottom lip — half-cruel and half-erotic. Tom tastes his intentions, eyes opening a sliver to glare down at Tord. Then he lets his lips part.

He doesn’t force his way in, but Tord still takes it as a challenge; each of them always trying to one-up the other, never satisfied with lying flat. Tord opens his mouth before Tom’s tongue can even prod at his lips, their kiss deepening as though they’d practiced this together a hundred times before. Tom hums, and Tord eagerly swallows the vibration.

They part for half a second, gulping down air before Tord’s hands find the collar of Tom’s hoodie and pull him back down. Their mouths messily clash again, a little too much teeth and then a little too much tongue, and then they even out again. Mind buzzing like TV static, Tord bucks his hips upwards, groaning at the friction the movement yields.

Tom presses Tord’s chest down with a sure and steady hand. They part again, but don’t exactly move away; their noses still touch and their lips brush against each other’s as their mouths fall open to gasp and pant.

Tord frowns half-indignantly at Tom, who keeps them apart when together they work so much better. The question clearly shines in his eyes, because Tom gently shakes his head.

“What?” Tord asks, heart sinking a little in worry. “You don’t want to?”

Tom’s eyes have fallen shut; his chest moves with his labored breaths. “No, it’s not that,” he says — not exactly meaning to reassure Tord, but rather meaning to explain. “I just can’t believe I want to do this with you.”

Tord tilts his head in confusion. “Fuck?”

Tom glares down at him. “You could be less crass.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Tord retorts, frowning because he’s pretty sure that’s not a good thing. “If you don’t want to, we won’t. But you’re the one who kissed me.”

If Tom had eyes, he would probably roll them now. “You’re the one with a hard-on.”

“The only one?” Tord grins. Tom’s still straddling him, though their chests are together now — it’s not exactly difficult to feel.

He’s pretty sure Tom flushes at that, but that’s probably just from all the kissing. Probably. “You’re so irritating.”

“Ja, keep saying things like that,” Tord snickers. “I’m almost there.”

Tom doesn’t mask it well this time, the amusement passing over his face freely but begrudgingly. Tord can see it. It’s the strangest thing: it seems that anger isn’t the only way to dissipate the blank mirage he maintains and gauge Tom’s emotions.

He kisses Tord again, and now Tord can feel it properly: the stupid tongue piercing he’d given himself in senior year. Tord had been thinking about that thing since they were eighteen years old — a little too late to feel it, since they’d begun to drift apart by then. And besides, Tom probably wouldn’t have let him; they’d only had a handful of times they’d kissed in sophomore year, and they’d both never spoken of it again.

Not to say it hadn’t crossed their minds many, many times since.

Tord threads a hand up into Tom’s hair, nails prickling at his scalp as he takes a hold there. The kisses begin to turn more shallow, and Tord almost wonders why — until Tom begins kissing down his lips, to his jaw, where he finally lands on Tord’s throat. When his teeth graze the sensitive skin there, Tord whines again.

In retaliation — or more fittingly, in tandem — he bucks his hips once more, grinding against Tom with more hunger than before. Tom’s mouth falls open against his neck, and he half-sighs and half-groans as the movement offers him some stimulation of his own. Like a drug, it’s clearly not enough. He presses forwards, meeting Tord halfway on his next roll of his hips.

“Fuck, Tomas,” Tord sighs, one hand still in his hair and the other clutching at the back of his neck.

It stirs something inside of Tom. He noses at Tord’s throat, pressing another kiss to his Adam’s apple and feeling it bob as Tord swallows hard. The kisses trail down to the junction where neck meets collarbone, just peeking out of his hoodie. He presses his mouth to that too: once, twice, then he bites down gently.

The whine with which he’s rewarded is louder, more breathy and far more heated. Tom kisses the spot again, the pecks climbing higher and then turning to nips and bites in-between each soft press of lips to the skin.

Tord’s chest rises and falls. If he were any less hard right now, he might have it in him to be embarrassed that he’s gotten so worked up over so little.

Tom hits a certain spot, and it perfectly aligns with the roll of their hips together. His breath hitches in his bruising, aching throat. “Faen ta—” He cuts himself off as the feeling passes, head pushing back into the cushions.

As soon as the words fly out, Tom’s movement stills slightly. Softly, Tord hears him moan against the base of his throat. His eyes crack open slightly and he glances down, confused.

Tom must be able to feel the puzzlement, because he speaks unprompted. “Keep talking,” he mumbles, face turned down still.

Tord cocks an eyebrow. “I thought my voice pissed you off?”

He lightly scoffs against Tord’s collarbone. “Not when I can’t understand what you’re saying,” he murmurs.

It’s as if the angels have begun singing. Tord’s eyes light up. “You like when I speak Norwegian?” He realizes with what can only be described as pure elation drenching his voice. “Herregud, it turns you on! Oh, I don’t believe it.”

Tom raises his head, an unstifled but reluctant smirk on his lips. “Jesus, you just don’t shut up, do you?”

“Well, now I’m getting mixed signals.”

Tord grins as Tom kisses him again, slow but burning hot. Just as Tord’s eyes begin to fall shut again, Tom pulls back.

“How do you say ‘you’re an asshole’ in Norwegian?”

Tord laughs. “Let me just show you,” he says, and bucks his hips again.

Tom groans, hand coming to rest on Tord’s hip as he returns the movement, meeting him halfway once more. Almost competitively, the two roll their hips in tandem; Tord’s dick strains at his jeans, almost one-hundred percent sure a wet spot is forming in his boxers. A spare glance down leaves him even more sure that Tom’s in a similar situation, pleasure shooting through him as their fronts rock against one another.

A louder grunt has Tom grinding down on Tord in just the right way, all the stars aligning as Tord is driven back into the couch. His mouth falls open, brows pinching as a moan weasels its way out from somewhere deep in his chest. The heat begins to build again, the competition growing higher in stakes. Tord bucks his hips up harder and faster, reaching up to grab ahold of Tom’s face and kiss him fervently.

“Faen ta deg,” he hisses against Tom’s lips. “[If you don’t fucking touch me soon—]”

“Mmh,” Tom hums against his lips, pleased. But the demand falls on deaf ears, the language barrier admittedly very sexy but proving to be difficult to obey any given commands.

Tord doesn’t slow his movements. “Tomas.”

Tom hums again — this time in question — sounding quite blissed out as they rhythmically rut against each other. Tord huffs impatiently.

“Take your trousers off.”

Tom’s eyes open, slowly catching up to speed. “What?”

“Herregud.” Tord rolls his eyes, arousal sabotaging his patience. “Can I touch your dick?”

Tom is definitely snapping out of the trance by now. “Um—”

Tord sighs. “Tom, may I please touch your dick?”

He’s laying it on a bit thick. Tom probably would’ve laughed at him, were he not just as hard as Tord. “Uh, yeah. Obviously.” He fumbles for his fly. “Yeah.”

Tord slaps his hand away, to which Tom frowns indignantly. Fuck him, honestly — plus, fuck that for being so weirdly hot to him. Tord reaches down, fingers crawling over the bulge in his jeans instead of toying with the zipper there. Then — gaze drifting back up to meet Tom’s — he starts palming him through the denim.

Tom sees what he’s playing at, and he takes the challenge head-on. He doesn’t break Tord’s gaze as the latter fondles him, pressing his palm to the bulging print in his jeans and pulling away each in turn over and over again. Tord paws at him coyly and confidently, rolling his hips against the busied hand almost desperately.

Tom finally breaks the stare with a low moan, chin tipping down and forehead bumping against Tord’s as he feels his dick twitch and pulse with want. He’s practically drooling, being given all of the attention but yet not enough — and with Tord rutting shamelessly against the back of his own hand, he sees his chance and takes it.

“Jesus, get to it, yeah?” He snaps, but it has no real bite to it. Riling Tord up isn’t an easy task for just anyone, but not just anyone has Tord’s hand on their dick right now. Tom does though, so suffice to say he knows what he’s doing.

When Tord glances up to glare at Tom, the latter reaches down and slips his hand around Tord’s. He finds where Tord’s pants are straining and pinches the zipper between his fingers, dragging it down and then returning back to the top of the fly to unbutton his jeans.

Tord’s relief is short-lived — dick far less constricted, but still untouched. Tom’s gaze wanders down to Tord’s crotch, grinning when he sees just how hard he is. Before Tord can sneer anything impatient or bratty, Tom threads his fingers over the waistband of his boxers and delves deep beneath the elastic.

Tord mewls as the pads of Tom’s fingers lazily stroke his lower abdomen, a sensitive zone that makes him shiver in anticipation as Tom’s hand dips lower still. He follows the thick, dark brown trail of hair — though he can’t see it, he knows Tord’s sandy blonde hair isn’t exactly natural thanks to their high school days — that paves the way to a thicker crop of it. He finally finds what he’s looking for, but takes his sweet time in wrapping his hand around it.

Tord shudders again, a deeper whine breaking loose from deep within. Eagerly, he comes to assist, shoving his jeans farther down his thighs so Tom might have easier access and a fuller range of motion. What can he say? He’s very selfless. With that desperate action, their pace seems to pick up a bit. Tord reaches forward and goes after Tom’s jeans next, practically tearing them open and shoving them down in turn.

He doesn’t tease Tom with easygoing strokes and gentle touches like the latter does to him — Tord’s pulling down Tom’s boxers just as quickly as he’d done away with the pants. Tom’s dick springs free, hitting against his stomach before Tord hastily takes hold of it.

“Fuck—” Tom hisses, cutting himself off as he bites the junction where Tord’s throat meets his shoulder. It draws a whimper from Tord himself, who begins stroking Tom at the pace their hips are bucking.

“[Please, Tom. Jesus Christ — I can’t take it,]” Tord whines against the top of Tom’s head, face buried in his hair. It smells faintly of some tropical fruit, the name of which escapes Tord right now. It’s strangely nice — maybe it’s his shampoo? “[I need you so fucking bad.]”

Tom may not understand, but the tone is universal. He follows the example Tord has set, tugging off Tord’s boxers as well and drawing a sigh of relief from him. Tord hooks a leg around Tom’s back and presses their fronts together, the heat and friction building. The precome that’s been beading at his tip is enough to slick up Tom’s fist, strokes turning to pumps as he slides his hand from head to base in a hasty fashion. Tord copies this, pausing to thumb the head of Tom’s dick, trailing the pad of his digit along the slit.

Tom moans, low in timbre. With their chests pressed together like this, Tord feels the minute vibrations wrack his body, and he gets drunk on it. It sets something alight in him; he needs more.

“Yeah,” Tord coos. “Just like that, Jehovah.”

He purposely says it to rile him up. It works, of course.

“Can’t understand you,” Tom says. “I don’t speak English.”

Tord’s grin is almost evil. “Hah- your understand me fucking perfectly.”

Tom bites down on his bottom lip. “Mmgh- sorry. That’s still English.”

The tension coils tight in Tord’s stomach. In a moment of sudden confidence — and if there’s such a thing as pleasant frustration — Tord uses his hooked leg to his advantage, moving his free hand to Tom’s chest and flipping their positions. He calculatedly shoves Tom backwards, catching him off-guard and smashing their mouths together again. Now he’s on top, still pumping his fist around Tom’s cock.

“[Do you understand now?]” He asks, pressing his hips down.

Their fronts meet again, but this time there’s no barrier of clothing. Skin-to-skin, everything feels so good — electricity pulses at a dangerously high voltage through Tord’s veins as he works Tom’s dick against his own, Tom’s hand only having stilled for half a moment before picking up again competitively. Tord’s hand moves from Tom’s sternum to his throat, tightening his grip and leaning his body weight on the arm. They’ve got red, bitten lips and furrowed brows as their gazes lock onto one another.

Tom fights not to throw his head back in ecstasy, veins appearing on his neck as he’s choked. “Fuck you. Holy shit- fuck you, commie.”

Tord laughs, but it’s breathy and quickly turns into a long, open-mouthed moan. “Faen ta deg,” he murmurs back, grinning.

The heat spreads from far down and deep inside, beginning to seize up the air in their lungs. Tord’s purpling throat refamiliarizes itself with the feeling — although this time, it’s different: they’re coming to the peak, the fruits of their labor ripening as the euphoric feeling swells. Tord’s sweating, his greedy hand taking over Tom’s job of stroking Tord’s cock, now working them both in one hand. It’s clumsy at first, a whole few seconds of the same pace but a harder task, but then he gets a hang of it.

Tom finally throws his head back, Tord’s hold letting up just a little. “I’m close, I’m so fucking close—”

“Herregud—” Tord’s cursing again. “Faen ta deg, Tomas. Faen ta—”

Suddenly, a sharp pain shoots through Tord’s face, his head snapping to his right so fast it gives him whiplash. He gasps, choking the air out simultaneously as he takes it in. It’s then that Tom moans; it’s the loudest Tord’s ever heard him and so profoundly desperate that Tord thinks the sound alone makes him salivate. Tom comes, thick white ropes that shoot up between them and splatter across Tord’s face. At first, he doesn’t understand what’s happened — a little dazed and brain far too foggy — but when the ache in his jaw turns white-hot, he realizes.

Tom just punched him in the fucking face.

What’s worse is that all of a sudden, Tord cries out as he comes as well.

His climax sneaks up on him, the punch really doing him in. The teeth on the left side of his face ache, his throat is sore, and he’s collapsing against Tom as his body tenses up, releasing between them and shuddering as he does so. They’re slumped against the couch — which they really, really have to wash now — chests heaving and bodies sagging in exhaustion and utter bliss.

That fucking asshole.

Tord’s so relaxed lying on Tom’s chest that he’s almost disappointed in himself. “Did you just punch me in the face?”

Tom’s chest rises and falls with great effort. “No.”

“You just punched me in the fucking face, and then you came on it!” Tord raises his head, stunned beyond belief. “You’re unbelievable! I can’t believe it!”

Tom stares back at him. “You came the second I punched you.”

“You’re an asshole!” Tord pointedly ignores him. “You got off from punching me!”

“No, I got off from fucking you,” Tom corrects. “You were choking me!”

“You choked me first!”

“Well, you started it.”

Glaring at Tom, Tord rubs his cheek. “Ow, Tomas. Ow.” He feels over the rest of his face, wiping it off and then rubbing the spend gathered on his fingers on the front of Tom’s hoodie. “[You’re a prick.]”

“Whatever that means.”

Tord huffs, but lies back down on Tom’s chest. Neither of them move, and soon the situation really begins to set in.

They fucked. In the living room. On the couch. After they tried to kill each other.

Huh.

“We can’t ever tell Edd or Matt about this.”

“Nope,” Tord agrees.

“We might have to throw out the couch.”

“Maybe.”

Tom pauses. “This was a one-time thing.”

The way he says it isn’t a statement, though. It’s a question, one that makes Tord hesitate.

Because yeah, they fucked. In the living room. On the couch. After they tried to kill each other.

But it was really, really good. Unfortunately, it was.

So Tord hesitates. “It doesn’t have to be.”

Tom stills, but Tord doesn’t look up at his face. For once, he’s not sure he needs to know what Tom’s thinking, even if it’ll be plain to see.

He speaks again. “We just can’t tell Edd or Matt, and we have to burn the couch. I’ll personally spend my savings on a new one, but you have to chip in. Half and half.” Being the only one without a stable job, he can say goodbye to any packs of cigs for the next two weeks; Edd’s never gonna lend him a fiver for that. “But, I mean…”

Tom’s quiet for a moment. Then he begins to nod. “I mean…”

Now they look at each other, and Tord can see it. Tom’s guard is down, and he knows it. He doesn’t even care.

With their chests together like this, Tord hopes Tom can’t feel his heart stumble.

Tom’s face does something complicated. In response, Tord’s does it too — except he’s not as good at stifling it. So he smiles.

Tom smiles back.

“How do you say ‘you’re an asshole’?” Tom asks again, trying to will the smile away.

Tord doesn’t. “Jeg elsker deg.”

Tom drops his head back, staring up at the ceiling. “Jeg elsker deg, then.”

Tord smiles a bit wider. Then he winces. “Ow.”