UH TOMTORD

A milky black night sky out a window, dotted here and there with stars of all kinds of colors. An inability to see the beauty of a night sky due to the blinds drawn over his bedroom window. His blank eyes devoid of anything glaring up at his ceiling without any feel to it.

The silence hanging in his room feeling like a punishment for secluding himself. His insomnia getting the best of him as it tore him away from something he needed - and wanted - dearly: sleep.

He'd do anything just to get a moment or so of sleep. But he knew the moment he'd lay down, the second he'd happen to close his eyes and drift off into the soft hands of a gentle dream, he'd be awoke roughly by a churning feeling in his stomach.

It's been a reoccurring problem since he was a child. The inability to sleep. Causing him to gain such a short temper over the years. Snapping at the smallest remark one would make.

As of recently, it'd especially been kicking his ass.

Where he'd once be able to fall asleep for an hour or so at a time (an hour was generous), now he couldn't even close his eyes and rest without that same churning feeling in the pit of his stomach returning and nagging at him.

Almost a sick feeling.

That wasn't what prevented him from sleeping. No. He could live with how uncomfortable that was.

It was simply insomnia.

He brought a hand up to his face, rubbing at his eyes tiredly. He wasn't too upset with the fact he couldn't sleep. It gave him a reason to get up at night and drink his feelings away; it gave him a reason to drink the ringing silence in his head away.

He gave a quiet groan, not wishing to wake up any of the men in the other rooms who were hopefully sleeping peacefully.

Tom kicked his legs off of the side of his bed, his eyes glancing wearily around his bedroom. The shadows coating every inch of the small room that moonlight didn't touch or happen to illuminate. He stood up, legs shaking as he walked over to his door.

Mind blank entirely as he turned the doorknob with a small clicking noise. Not entirely snapping him out of his weird mind state. His feet, which had been covered with fluffy black and white socks. The wooden floor creaked quietly under his weight. Which he prayed none of his roommates would hear at this time of night.

He didn't even bother checking the time on the clock in his room. It was too dark to do so anyways. He could have sworn he heard a voice. Even a small noise he could have mistaken for a voice.

". . . det igjen. . ."

Why-

He knew who that was- He knew all too well.

Everyone else in the house was British. Neither one of them knowing much - if any - Norwegian. Edd, Matt, neither of them knew any Norwegian. At least that he was aware of.

And who was the only guy in the house that spoke Norwegian fluently?

Tord.

The commie himself.

Blonde hair pulled up into two spikes at the top of his head, the rest a messy blonde mess along the back of his neck and the rest of the back of his head. Tord.

The asshole that never seemed to change, even throughout the years he'd lived with the three of the other pals. He never changed. His style, his stupid voice (which Tom hated even the thought of), his thick accent, nothing.

Tom gave another groan of dissatisfaction. making his way quietly down into the lower floor of their house. Into the kitchen. Not even noticing a pair of two silver eyes staring into the back of his head. Watching his every move with lidded eyes. A smile on his face.

Tord's chin rested on the arm of the couch, laying lazily on it, limbs sprawled out on the comfy surface. The fabric providing warmth. Even without a blanket. (He had one. He'd just kicked it to the end of the couch)

Tom stood in the kitchen, searching the fridge hastily. Just wanting to find one single bottle he could down in less than 5 minutes- Clear bottle, clear bottle- He could have sworn he'd stocked up the last time they went shopping. Where'd it go-?

"Heyy, Jehovah’s Witness," Tord started, startling Tom. Causing the shorter to flinch and blink rapidly. His hand gripping the refrigerator tightly. Nervously. Teeth gritting with irritation.

Simply hearing the other's voice was enough to make him angry. It was enough for him to lose his short temper.

"What're you doing up at this hour, hm?" He continued. Tom could hear the snarky smile in his voice without even having to look back and see for himself. He just knew all too well, at this point, how to tell when that- that annoying prat was being a child and

"I could ask you the same," Tom grumbled, finding the bottle and giving a quiet 'aha', grabbing the bottle hastily and closing the refrigerator door.

"I can't go to sleep. Too much on my mind," Tord eyed the bottle in Tom's hands, focusing intently on it as if he were trying to silently relay a message to the other. "You have a problem with drinking, you know,"

"Shut the fuck up, commie," Tom hissed- Temper already snapping in two at the slightest remark Tord made. Only resulting in a quiet, yet still audible chuckle from the taller.

"Chill, I'm just pointing something out," Tord huffed in response. Tom made his way over to the couch Tord sat on, sitting at the end of it where the blanket Tord was so kindly given resided.

"Yeah? I didn't need you to point it out in the first place,"

Tord rolled his eyes. "Stop taking things so seriously,"

"It's hard to when you're being such a damn prick all the time,"

Silence engulfed the two. The only sound between them being the opening of Tom's vodka bottle. Small glugging noises heard from the bottle as he downed it surprisingly quick. Burning his throat and freeing him of the foggy silence that hung in his mind at all times. It was an escape.

While most would drink to get rid of feelings and thoughts, Tom simply drank to have thoughts. Feelings, anything. And it worked. Decently.

Sure, it didn't rid him of his horribly short temper. But that wasn't ever anything he could change.

He and Tord locked eyes. His void-like orbs staring into Tord's silver