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It was a busy Friday night, the night club was packed and shining under the colourful strobing lights, the bass pounding through the walls. The crowd blurred, their eyes locking onto each other- one by the bar, the other near the dance floor. For a brief moment everything else faded around them.
Tom could feel the cold sweat on his neck drip as he met Tord's grey, piercing eyes. A smirk tugged on the Norwegian's lips, a subtle understanding exchanged between them.
And just as fast as the moment took place, the tension disappeared, swallowed by the pulsing lights and the moving of the crowd. It was like a silent dare, but Tord ignored it and turned back to the people around him with a cigarette dangling from his lips.
Everyone becomes a good dancer when they're bumped up on various substances and alcohol. Tord had learned that first hand. He was barely aware of his surroundings, and yet the two pitch black eyes that met his were so familiar they almost made him sober up.
It's been three years since Tom and Tord cut all ties and yet they keep finding each other in all kinds of places.
Tom blames it on the relatively small town and the fact their apartments are a 45 minute drive apart.
Tord thinks Tom hid a tracking device inside of him somehow.
He keeps dancing, moving steadily to the beat with his friends beside him, taking a drag from the cigarette and watching the plume of smoke disappear in the air.
He's having a great time, and yet his mind keeps flooding to the gaze he feels boring into his back.
"...someone you know?"
The barkeep speaks up, glass in his hand. Tom's the only one at the bar right now, along with some old guy that blacked out on the counter hours ago. Tom barely registers it, snapping out of it and drumming his fingers over his nearly empty pint. His head stays turned, his expression turning nonchalant.
"Hm? No, not really. Just some guy over there." He nods his head towards where Tord is still dancing, feigning indifference.
The barkeep raises a questionable brow. He doesn't get paid enough for this. He could not care less for another mopey sad sack by his bar, and yet he hadn't seen anyone with a look that longing in a while.
"...i say go for it."
Tom scrunches his face up like he bit into something bitter, taking a swig from his beer.
"Nah, I'm good. Don't even know him."
He used to, though. Tom was well aware of how rocky their relationship was- if you could even call it that. It was complicated. They had known each other since middle school when Edd introduced them to each other and their hatred for each other grew every day.
Only then high school and college happened and they.... well.
Got waaay too co-dependent.
The bartender catches the brief glance he sends back to Tord and shrugs, straining the shaker to prepare another cocktail.
"So what? Better than moping around here."
Tom scoffs, offended by the idea. He looks at Tord again, bathed in the club's blue and violet lights, nearly completely covered by people and still sticking out like a sore thumb to him.
"I'm not moping. Just observing."
The barkeep rolls his eyes and shakes his head. He mumbles under his breath, "...more like yearning." The Brit's eyes narrow and he shoots the bartender a sharp glare.
"Excuse me? I do not yearn."
He finishes the pint, trying to drown out the small flutter in his chest that the barkeep's idea caused. Go up to him? No way. He'd rather be warming the bar stool for the rest of the night. Crush his own glass and shove it into his mouth.
He watches Tord's grinning side-profile, his body moving effortlessly, his obnoxious confidence that was obvious just by looking at him. The fluttering increases. He's not sure if it's the Smirnoff coming back up or something worse. His hand pinches the bridge of his nose, rubbing over his face in a frustrated manner.
"Fuck, I can't just…"
The barkeep slides a shot of tequila near his way.
"...here. For manning up."
Tom looks at him and at the shot, unsure if he's upset or grateful. It's still free booze. He downs the shot immediately, face straight just like it has been for the past eleven years of his life he's spent drinking. Mildly concerning.
"Why are you doing this?"
The barkeep smiles a little, setting the drink on the counter for it to be picked up. He flicks his head in a shooing motion.
"Scram."
Tom takes a deep breath, squeezing his eyes shut as he turns away from the bar, standing up. Was he drunk enough for this? Probably not. He moves through the sea of people and the vape clouds, trying not to get anything spilled on him. He pushes through the people, determined to reach Tord. The closer he gets, the more sick his stomach becomes. Maybe if he throws up on him he'll finally leave him alone. He taps the Norse's shoulder.
The gut-wrenchingly familiar face greets him and he feels his heart sink. Why was he doing this again? Tord was drunk, and by the size of his pupils? Definitely high. Good sign. He might not remember this interaction tomorrow.
Tord instantly lights up, his smile stretching into a grin too wide to be sober as he greets his ex-....something.
"Tomm!"
He did not miss that agitating, accent-heavy voice. He's been living in England for most his life and he still sounded like that. Tom plasters a small, casual smile on his mouth, trying to sound more put together than he actually is.
"Hey. Having fun?"
He's ignoring the fact he has to yell for Tord to hear anything, the music and people around them so loud he's sure his hearing is deteriorating as they speak.
"Yeah. You?"
"I guess. It's alright." Tom's eyes roam around his features for a little too long. The grown out mullet with the distinctive turned up tufts, the sharp point of his nose, his jaw-- shit.
The Norwegian smiles and hums, crushing the cigarette under his shoe. His eyes give Tom a brief once-over. Tom had always hated clubs like these. He'd get overwhelmed too easily. Tord made fun of him for it all of the time.
"...wanna dance?"
He'd bark out a laugh if he was sober. Dance? Him? He hesitates for a brief moment. A thousand thoughts fly over his brain-- the memories of their past, the regrets- but the alcohol's fogging his mind nicely. He could say no and walk away, protect himself. Or he could take the risk, dance with him and maybe get laid by someone who actually has an emotional connection with him. The words are already out his mouth before he processes everything.
"...yeah, alright."
Tord's grabbing his wrist, pulling him into the crowd. Tom can feel the ugly feeling in his stomach, the anticipation bubbling with how intoxicated he is. The Brit can't help but feel that familiar spark of electricity that always ran through him whenever they made contact. Or maybe that tequila was spiked. He follows along, the music and the energy of the crowd enveloping them as they reach the middle of the dance floor.
He hesitates for a second, unsure of where to put his hands. He decides to say fuck it and places his arms around the Norwegian, pulling him closer. Tord doesn't notice the hesitance as the intoxicated smile stays plastered on his face, his hands working up from Tom's biceps, to his shoulders, up his neck before tangling into his spiked hair. He can feel the tacky gel under his fingertips.
Their bodies fit like a jigsaw puzzle, completely in sync like the other is a familiar song they hadn't heard in a long time. Or maybe they're just very drunk.
A shiver crawls up Tom's spine as Tord's hands roam over him. It was a little overwhelming in the best way. His hands tighten on the Norwegian's hips, pulling him even closer as the alcohol and music make him feel bolder than usual. They move fluidly, carelessly as the colourful lights flash around them, and for a second it feels like they're in their own world.
Tord's head was nodding along the beat, body rolling against Tom's. He's so close he can smell Tom's cologne and it makes his gut stir. Maybe he can cajole him into a quickie in the bathroom if he looks at him just right. His lithe, pale hands slip from his hair to his chest, over the thin cotton shirt, rubbing over it as if familiarising himself with his body again.
Tom lets out a sharp breath, his own hands sliding around to the small of Tord's back, pulling him flush against him. The feel of the Norse's body- to have someone who had turned into a completely different person while they weren't talking anymore- so close to him was both parts exciting and anxiety-inducing. He hadn't realised how much he missed it.
Two pitch black eyes lock into those grey, alluring ones and the Brit recognizes that look. They knew what they wanted. It was all downhill from here.
Tord got the memo. He leans closer, tilting his head up and to the side, his eyes on Tom's lips. The Brit can smell the cigarettes on his breath, much like the other man can smell the vodka on him. A brief reminder that this was nothing more but an inebriated dance with no room for Jesus. Like they were two strangers hastily dancing on each other like everyone else in the club. Like Tom didn't know Tord's favourite pair of socks, and Tord didn't know the exact way Tom takes his coffee.
The blue clad man feels the Norse's breath mingling with his own and it's making him more excited than he'd like to admit. He can't stop himself any longer or Tord might think he's falling in love again. He takes the plunge, capturing Tord's slightly chapped lips in a heated kiss, the need to feel him again growing stronger every moment.
Tord hums, melting into it immediately as Tom grips his hips harder, one hand roaming to his rear as the other tangles in his messed up hair, tugging lightly. Their tongues rub and explore each other's mouths, with Tord tilting his head to slot their lips deeper, moaning softly into the kiss. His own greedy hands rub and grope over Tom's body. It feels as if no time's passed, like their differences and arguments are completely forgotten, and all that matters is if they'll manage to get off.
Their hips move in tandem and Tom can feel the pangs of heat shooting into his gut. When he breaks the kiss and starts pressing kisses over Tord's jaw, the latter grabs at his wrist and mumbles something into his ear.
-
Tom doesn't even remember how they got here. It didn't matter.
With the harsh thud of the door Tom's all over him again. It's a small, secluded room that surprisingly locks. A bathroom with a dim red light as the only light source, a counter with a sink and a mirror above it. Tom doesn't bother looking around. He pushes him against the door as soon as it closes, crowding him as his body presses against him again. He shoves his tongue between his lips, both trying to one-up the other as their sloppy technique causes them to clank teeth.
After a few minutes of Tord checking if Tom still likes all the quirks and spots he used to, they're pulling away and panting heavily. The red lighting of the room makes Tord's features sharper, more angular and Tom has to stifle a groan at the sight. His pupils were blown wide and he can only begin to imagine what kinds of drugs were going up his nose prior to this.
The Brit grabs his hips, lifting him up and pressing him against the door. They can still hear the bass of the music thumping in the club along with their stuttered breathing.
"Ah- mm-"
Tom was always so rough and desperate. It turned Tord on immensely. He wraps his legs around Tom's waist, rutting against him. He can hear the hitch of Tom's breath, the way a grunt escapes his parted lips, his eyes narrowed and so, so, hungry. His mouth moves to Tord's neck, littering fast, wet kisses and bites that made Tord bow his back against the door, his head thrown back to give him more space to work with. The bassist's calloused hands grip at Tord's thighs, holding him up in an almost possessive way. Tord snakes his arms around his neck, tugging at the spiked locks and smirking when Tom rewards him with a poorly-stifled groan.
Then the world is spinning and Tom's bending him over the sink, the mirror right in front of them. Christ. It was as raunchy as it was hot. He feels- and sees- Tom behind him, hands hiking up the shirt Tord's wearing, his lips sucking at his neck and leaving a hickey so dark it's prominent even in the red light. A gasp escapes Tord's lips when he feels Tom's half-hard dick press against his ass and hears how Tom huffs in amusement, his mouth curved into a sly smile. Fucker.
Tom's exploring hands slide down to the Norse's thighs, his right one palming over the front of his jeans. Tord keens, back arching slightly as his eyebrows furrow. His hazy eyes watch the way Tom's fingers unbuckle his belt, fumbling with the button of his jeans and pulling the zipper down.
Tom remembers these jeans. The lazy mornings where they'd be the only thing Tord was wearing, smoking on the porch with a zippo lighter in his left pocket. His other hand experimentally grazes over it and- yep, still there.
Tord's unaware of Tom's reminiscing. The only thing he's focusing on right now is Tom's hand down his boxers and how it's grazing his heat, feeling how wet he is. A thin sheen of sweat envelops Tord and he moans softly when Tom pushes a digit in.
"...Jesus Christ."
The Brit's chuckling, deep voice murmurs, his breath tickling Tord's ear. The mocking chuckle only makes him wetter, his thighs subtly pressing together. The Norse bites his lip, his hands gripping the sink and feeling the cool porcelain against his warm, sweaty palms. He curses under his breath.
When Tom's pushing a second finger in, Tord's eyes are already half-closed, his body involuntarily rocking back against his touch. His head feels too heavy to stay upright, lolling down to the sink.
The Brit's talented calloused fingers push in and rub his entrance, the wet sounds of his ministrations echoing out in the small bathroom. It makes Tord's cheeks even warmer and he'd be embarrassed if he wasn't so desperate. Tom finds it amusing, before the next words that fall out of the man in front of him make his smile fall and his cheeks bloom red.
"Ah, fuck...please, Tom-"
Tom had forgotten how beautiful his voice could be when it wasn't making sarcastic remarks in that grating accent. His own hips jerk into the curve of Tord's rear unintentionally and he groans softly. Tom's two digits tease at his sensitive nub just to hear another whiny sound. It was almost too much, the thick, calloused fingers rubbing him, the feeling of his lips on his neck and the shallow breathing by his ear- and yet he couldn't help but want more.
Then Tom's yanking the Tord's boxers down and the latter hisses at the cold air hitting his bare skin. Tom unbuckles his belt hurriedly and lets his jeans and boxers pool at his thighs, spitting in his already soiled hand and making a strangled noise as he lubricates himself. Tord's torn between shutting his eyes in pleasure or looking into the mirror to see Tom's face pinched up in a way that makes him undeniably attractive.
"Look at me."
His free hand grabs at Tord's jaw, tilting it up with a vice grip, his voice low and authoritative. The Norwegian swallows hard, opening his dazed eyes to meet Tom's in the mirror. They're both a picture of pure debauchery, panting like dogs and covered in sweat.
"Want you to watch me."
Tom murmurs condescendingly, the slick sounds of his hand stroking his length making Tord blush a shade darker. His brain was going a hundred miles per hour, blood rushing in his ears with his heart racing so fast he wasn't sure if he was about to die or ascend.
He presses himself against Tord, his mouth hot against his ear. Tord's brain short-circuits.
"You want it, baby?" he whispers, his lips ghosting over the soft skin of Tord's neck as one hand grips his hip. He grinds against him, teasing, wanting to hear him say it.
Tord's not sure if he can speak right now. He nods, his accent thick and his voice wavering. "Please. Need it so bad."
Tom hums, feeling him up his ass and thighs before biting down on his jugular and pressing himself in. He exhales sharply as Tord whines, back arching and eyes squeezing shut. As soon as Tom starts, he can't seem to stop, fucking into him more and more as their shared moans become higher and more persistent.
"Oh, fuck, mm, Tomm-!"
He rams his hips into him, the squelching sounds of their skin meeting louder. He's so tight and so warm that it makes Tom's knees weak. Does this mean he hasn't been seeing anyone? The thought makes him grunt, thrusting his hips in harshly. He can feel Tord trembling under him, knocking into the counter with every thrust. He's already babbling.
"Ohmygod, please- please-"
One of his hands comes up to push Tord down on the sink, tugging his hair hard. He's rewarded with a gasp and a clench around his cock. The counter's digging into Tord's ribs and it's all slightly uncomfortable, but the feeling of being filled and emptied over and over is overriding the discomfort. He's losing his grip on the sink, his blunt nails scraping for ground.
Tom's barely keeping it together, his brain scrambling for release and pounding into him relentlessly. His teeth are clenched tight, the hand in Tord's hair even tighter. He feels the familiar fire pooling low in his abdomen. His hips try out different angles, trying to find that one bundle of nerves that makes Tord see stars.
And god, Tord's close to seeing them. His eyes are barely open anymore, wanting to roll back as Tom's cock finally brushes against that spot. He makes a sound similar to a yelp, knees buckling and hips rising up. Tom smiles to himself. He was still so easy. The hand on his hip moves to land a brief smack to Tord's ass as a small warning. He's only granted with a higher whine and a higher arch. He almost doesn't recognize his own voice when he speaks, all rough and husky.
"Yeah? Right there?"
Tord can't string sentences together anymore. Several curses, "Tom!"s and random babbling leave his lips, high and strung out. Tom recognises the telltale signs. He's close himself.
His hand slips down between his legs and starts rubbing tight, fast circles around his clit. He's starting to lose his rhythm. It was so much. Tord was tightening more and more around him and he didn't know how long he could keep it together for.
"Tom! Fuck, 'm gonna--"
His world stutters on its axis, melting into spurts of colour and dissolving into pleasure. He's trembling, body falling lax as the other man helps him ride it out, fingers slowing down. Tom bites back a moan at the sight, releasing deep into him with shallow thrusts moments later. Tord feels the warmth spill into him and gasps, feeling his cock twitch inside him.
They stay like that for some time, their bodies glistening with sweat as they revel in their orgasms. Tom hasn't came like that in a long time. He's still trying to catch his breath, and he takes a moment to enjoy this feeling of closeness and intimacy, knowing it won't last long. He slowly pulls out, ruffling Tord's hair. Maybe a little too affectionately.
Tord was slightly fatigued now, the alcohol and drugs wearing off. He slowly gets up from the sink, body sluggish and uncoordinated. He reaches for the towel wipes to briefly clean the mess between his thighs. Tom watches him with slight worry in his eyes, buckling his own belt back. He could've done that. He watches Tord zip his pants back up, awkwardly shuffling to the side and digging into his pockets.
And just like that, their exchange is over. They're back to acting like they don't know each other. Tom's gaze is still on him, following his movements, but he stays silent. The atmosphere turns awkward, uneasy, as the passion from before dissipates.
Tord pulls out a small plastic zip-bag of cocaine and a pocket knife. He seems oddly resigned, closed off, preparing a line on the counter like it was just another Tuesday night. The atmosphere turns heavier.
"...you want a bump?"
Tom looks at him with narrowed eyes, confusion and disbelief covering his features as his heart sinks a little. He knew Tord had a drug problem in the past, but it was still so disturbing seeing him do it in front of him. Hell, even offering it to him.
"No, I'm good." He replies curtly, his jaw clenching. He can't believe this is the same Tord that used to steal cigarettes from his father at the ripe age of 13, nervously fumbling with Tom's lighter as they both coughed and gagged at the taste.
And now he was doing a line off a dirty counter in a dirty night club. Wow.
He knows reaching out to him and stopping him would be useless. It's not like he has any right to, anyway. Tord shrugs, humming in assent and leaning down to snort the white powder, sniffing and patting at his nose. The Brit's face only twists in more distaste.
It's as if a switch has been flicked on, that smile that's a bit too wide on his face appearing again. He rubs the excess powder over his gums, feeling them go numb. He feels like himself again. He puts on his sunglasses, patting Tom's shoulder and heading for the exit of the room.
"Wooh, that's more like it. C'mon."
Tom stands there for a moment, his eyes trained on Tord's back as he leaves. He feels a pang in his chest, but he pushes it down, plastering a blank expression on his face. He takes a deep breath and follows him out of the red room, the music blasting into his face again.
He needs a drink.