Chapter Text
Tord’s minitruck pulled over with a screech in front of a slightly overgrown dirt road. They’d been driving for some 3 hours. The sun’s pretty high up by then, but there still remained a slight chill.
“Here it is.” Tord took the key out of the ignition.
Tom stumbled into the road, glad to be able to stretch his legs finally. Tord treats his truck like a tool shed so he’d crammed into it a truly ungoly amount of crap. For the whole ride Tom had had his knees hiked up to his chest in a near-fetal position because his entire leg space was overtaken by a mysterious heavy-duty cargo box. He recalled how even the passenger’s seat had been full of random junk before Tord haphazardly tossed them into the back with one hand, while the other rested lazily on the steering wheel. That’s probably why the seat wasn’t able to recline.
His knees ached, and there was a stinging sensation on his arse where his tailbone is.
He was also a little ill because Tord got the truck off of Facebook Marketplace for £3000, which means Tom was feeling every single bump on the road. Tord loved to brag about having low-balled the previous owner, but is it really low-balling if the thing drives exactly like its cost.
“Eh, it still drives.” Tord would say. And he’d have a point.
They strolled along the dirt road.
Surrounding them were open grassland and shrubberies as tall as Tom himself, swaying gently in the wind. His legs would itch from the weeds brushing past as he walked and their spiky seeds attaching themselves to his jeans. The air was crisp with a grassy, wet smell.
Tom felt his nausea fading away, as it usually did.
They had done this many times before. It all started half a year ago when Tord, out of the blue, woke Tom up just as the sun was rising and told him to get dress, we’re going somewhere together.
Tom, having had nothing better to do with his time, complied. When Tord’s minitruck lurched deeper and deeper into the countryside, and Tom saw the pistol Tord had strapped to his hip, he thought he was going to be killed.
But alas, all they did was sit in the grass and had some beer. Tord never touched the gun.
It was a decent enough day out, so the next times Tord invited him to do the same thing, Tom came with. They drove to some middle of nowhere and faffed about until the sun got low. Tord would sometimes pull out his pistol to shoot at birds. Before they knew it, it had become something of a ritual, a fixture between the two.
Tom didn’t really get why Tord started doing this, but he probably didn’t have to. It probably just felt nice. Tom only tagged along. He never thought too deeply about it so every time, all Tom would pack is his phone, a flask of vodka, and some cash, like he was just going out for groceries. Tord, in contrast, would carry a medium-sized backpack whose content Tom had no clue on. He’d seen Tord pull from it ammo for his gun and sometimes beer, but other than that the backpack remained a complete mystery.
Though it wasn’t like Tom cared enough to investigate.
After walking for about 20 minutes, they came across a clearing wherein sat a junk heap that looked almost like an art installation: a rotting, moldy wine-red sofa in the middle, flanked by wooden boards of various sizes, some propped up against the armrests, some lying flat on the grass, and behind them all to the right an inox water tank covered in a thin layer of grime. Tom thought about the kind of person who would come all the way out there just to dump their rubbish.
The sight seemed to have piqued Tord’s interest, so he dropped his backpack to the ground and walked over to the pile. He grabbed one of the thinner boards and placed it horizontally on the sofa, then took some steps back and pulled his gun, a semi-automatic pistol, out of its holster.
“Want to do some target practice?” He glanced at Tom.
“Pass.” Tom took a swig of vodka.
Tord hold the gun in both hands and aimed at the board. He made three shots at it which formed a near-straight line. Nice, Tom thought, though he would not say it out loud.
When Tord once again asked if he wanted to take a shot himself, Tom just shook his head.
“C’mon, you’ve never shot a gun before, right? Don’t you want to know what it feels like?”
“No, I don’t.”
“You’re scared or something?”
“No.”
“You’re definitely scared.”
“I’m not—fuck you, give it here.” Tom shrugged off his jacket.
Grinning satisfiedly, Tord handed Tom the gun. It felt heavy and solid. The grip was still slightly warm from Tord’s palm.
Tom mimicked Tord’s posture just now and straightened his arms, gun clasped in both hands, and leaned slightly forward.
“Ah, that’s no good. Want me to fix your stance?”
“No.”
Tord scooted over and happily positioned himself behind Tom. The prick’s half a head taller than him, so he had his crotch pressed against the very tail end of Tom’s spine. It felt a little too firm, too, like he’s…Tom wished he was only imagining things.
“Level your head.” He nudged it straight with his left hand. “And you’re only hunching over your shoulders. That’s not right, let me just—“ He grabbed Tom’s hips and pulled them slightly backwards, then pressed himself even more tightly against Tom as he clasped his own hands over the other’s. The padding at the base of his fingers was calloused and it rubbed uncomfortably against Tom’s knuckles. Tord’s breath is hot on his ear.
He wasn’t imagining it after all.
“Now place your finger on the trigger.”
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“You mean doing target practice with my friend? Of course I am.”
“Get off me.”
Tom jerked his shoulders harshly, and Tord stumbled backwards. So cranky, he mutters with a smirk.
“You’re still not leaning forward enough!”
Tom ignored him. He aimed at the wooden board for a couple of moments, but then moved the gun a bit to the right and pulled the trigger. The bullet hit the inox tank with a hollow bang and a fraction of a second later, Tom felt on his side a searing pain.
He keels over.
“What the fuck, Tom?”
He touched his waist where it was hurting through his shirt and felt there frayed fabric and some dampness. He was bleeding.
“For fuck’s sake, what did you think you were doing?”
“…I don’t know.”
“Give me the gun.” Which was hanging limply in Tom’s right hand, “No, wait, don’t point it at me, God.”
Tord slotted the thing back into his belt.
“Show me the wound.”
Tom peeled the shirt off where his skin split open, exposing a horizontal gash the size of a thumb. It was red and angry and oozing liquid, but more or less looked like a flesh wound. Didn’t hurt like it was anything more than that, either, though it did hurt.
“Can you stand up? Can you walk?”
“Stand up, yes. Walk, depends.”
“Okay, just sit here. I’ll go back to get first-aid.”
“You don’t have it?”
“No.”
What was the backpack for, then, Tom wanted to say, but Tord already walked off.
The wind picked up.
Tom could feel the cold sweat clinging to the back of his neck. He crawled to where he had thrown his jacket and fished from it the flask of vodka, then chugged it. It emptied out quickly.
Fuck, not now. He thought.
The wound’s still oozing blood, staining the waistband of his jeans. Pain reverberated through his body. It wasn’t absolutely excruciating, but he was getting dizzy from it, his head starting to spin. The wind snaking through his naked waist didn’t help either. Tom grabbed the jacket and clumsily draped it over his shoulders.
He sat there, unmoving for about half an hour. Then another half passed.
He started to think Tord had ditched him. Like, as a prank. Would Tord do something so cruel?
Perhaps.
Tom was lying down on his side by then. He would drift in and out of consciousness, until the sound of rubber soles stomping on soil could be heard coming towards him. Tom opened his bleary eyes.
“Sorry to keep you waiting.” Tord says.
He was holding in his hand a blue-green plastic food container. That must be the damn first-aid kit.
“The thing was stuck in the back with all the other crap. I had to dig it out.”
Tom did recall seeing it on the passenger’s seat, before…
He wanted to say something, to yell at Tord, but all he could muster was a grimace and a grunt.
“It’s alright, babygirl. I’ll patch you up now.”
Tord knelt down next to Tom, who was all curled up then, and pressed a knee against Tom’s spine to keep him steady. He uncapped a water bottle and pour it over the gash, which made Tom wince.
“Ah, not yet. I still have to disinfect it, you know.”
He was right. When Tord pressed a gauze soaked with hydrogen peroxide over Tom’s wound, the pain almost choked him. It was a jolting, scorching kind of pain that was what being branded with iron probably felt like. It really didn’t help that Tord was putting so much pressure on the gauze, no doubt deliberately.
Tom couldn’t see his face, but he just knew the fucker was smiling.
After all that was done, Tord covered his wound with some bandages and adhesive tape with practiced hands.
They sat side-by-side in silence for a while. Tord handed him a beer, which was tepid from being inside his backpack. Gross, but Tom would take anything at this point.
The pain would start to fade, or rather Tom was getting used to it. It eventually became more like an aching.
“Let’s keep going.” Tord spoke up.
“Right…”
They had somewhere they wanted to go. Tom was slightly limping at first, but then he would, too, get used to this.
***
Before long, the two reached a fork in the road. They took the left path where the rows of beech trees on either side formed above their heads a tentative arc. It was narrow and more overgrown than before. Sunlight filtered through the leaves painted peculiar, shifting shapes at their feet.
Slowly, a structure emerged into view: stone walls half-swallowed up by vines and blackened dead moss, a belltower rising out of the foliage, partially collapsed roof.
At that point, the path had more or less disappeared, so Tord and Tom was wading through weeds that went up to their waistlines. They ducked below a curtain of leaves to enter the chapel. Inside, not much remains but the two rows of decaying wooden benches and an empty altar, tranquil amidst a glimmering cloud of dust and golden sunlight from where the roof had collapsed.
When Tom walked up to the chancel, he saw there on the ground two bird skeletons, each the size of his palm, placed next to each other, their beaks touching, around them a crown of brownish-grey crumbled matter that Tom guessed was whatever that was left of their feathers and… some other stuff.
“In sickness and in health…” He mutters to himself.
“It’s kind of romantic, isn’t it? They’re together.”
“I wonder who put them there.”
It was a peaceful sight. Tom felt calm, despite the still pulsing pain on his abdomen.
He sat down on one of the benches to check his wound. A deep red bloomed on the gauze, so he was bleeding, still. Though he can wait until they got home to change the bandages, Tom though to himself.
“Wait, come into the light.” Tord motioned at him.
“…Why?”
“I want to see the wound. Come into the light.”
“You can see it well enough here.”
“No, I can’t.” Tord stomped over, “Here–“
He hooked his arms under Tom’s own and hoisted him off the bench, and the ground. “L-let go…” Tom tried to drag his feet, but the other easily carried him over to the patch of light and placed him onto the altar. It was surprisingly high, so that when Tom dangled his legs off of it, he only barely touches the ground with the tip of his shoes.
Tom would have protested more if he wasn’t feeling so weak.
“There you go.” Tord brushed his hands together as if dusting them off.
He then leaned closer and yanked up Tom’s shirt with one hand, while the other cupped Tom’s ribs as he stared at the wound. His breath on Tom’s skin, giving him goosebumps.
“I’ll have to change these the moment we get home.”
“You will? You’re my nurse now or something?”
“Yeah. I’ll take good fuckin’ care of you, Thomas.”
As he spoke, Tord still had his eyes glued on Tom’s abdomen with a rather intense expression, the damn freak. Aside from being a gun nut, this seemed to be another one of Tord’s… inclinations, and Tom didn’t want to think about why he was always at the receiving end of it.
“You really bruise like a peach, Tom.”
“Huh?”
“This one wasn’t here last week.”
Tord ran his thumb across a blue-purple patch about as big as a bottle cap on Tom’s stomach, next to his belly button. Tom didn’t remember getting it, but he was never good at remembering things, and was always bumping himself into furniture…
“Y’know, Tom.” Tord dug his thumb in, “I’ve always wondered how hard I’d have to press until it leaves a bruise.”
It felt good.
“You’re sick.” Tom spat.
Tord only smiled. His (rough, burning) hands snaked up Tom’s ribcage to rest at his chest, cupping it. One thumb grazing Tom’s already erect nipple got Tom pressing his lips together. Then Tord took it into his mouth.
“Ah, what’re you–!”
The sudden, wet hot sensation sent shivers all over Tom’s body. He jolted and balled his fist into Tord’s hair to yank him backwards. When Tord looked back up at him, his eyes were glazed over.
“What’s wrong. You liked it last time.”
“I… I was drunk!”
“You’re always drunk.”
In a flash, Tord grabbed Tom’s thighs and dragged them to the side so that he’s lying vertically on the altar. The abrupt movement tore something in the wound so Tom felt there a piercing pain. He grimaced and tried to curl in on himself but Tord quickly flipped him back over. He pressed on Tom’s shoulders, putting his entire upper body weight onto them as he loomed over his friend, grey eyes darkening. Tom felt his stomach drop.
“You’re always doing this, too.” Tord exhales, “Act like you don’t want it.”
Tord dove down to slam his lips against Tom’s. He forced his tongue into Tom’s mouth and licked it all over, and Tom recalled how he would complain again and again about Tom’s breath smelling like alcohol, but was always so eager to taste him.
As he pressed his body against Tom, pinning him to the altar, Tord dipped his hand down to Tom’s waistband and started fiddling with the button. Not again, Tom thought, as the other clumsily peeled off his briefs and jeans. They got stuck on Tom’s shoes, so Tord pulled away from Tom’s face, saliva staining the corner of his mouth, to take them off and toss them carelessly behind him.
“Fucking hell, Tord. Not here, not right now!”
The jeans were yanked off of Tom, finally, and he felt cool air on the skin of his thighs. Tord threw them, too, on the ground.
His cock was perking up, half-hard. Exposed under Tord’s wanting gaze.
“Why not?” Tord positioned himself between Tom’s bare legs, “If you’re so against it, just walk away, right now.” He stood still.
Tom didn’t move.
“Thought so.” Tord grabbed at Tom’s inner thighs and pushed them apart.
Then he spat on his own fingers one, two times and rubbed them together, made sure they were well slicked up, before pushing one into Tom’s hole. The sudden intrusion forced out of him a whine. Embarrassed, Tom clasped his hand over his own mouth, saw that Tord was smirking at him for it. As if in response, he crooked his finger, and another moan escaped Tom through clenched teeth.
“Enjoying yourself?”
Tom could hear the grin in his voice.
“S-shut up.”
He felt another finger entering. They scissored and spread him open and rubbed against the tender part inside that got Tom curling his toes as waves of pleasure radiated across his body. He felt like a string pulled taut, about to snap. His cock stood erect and painful. His hand reached down to try and touch it but Tord slapped him away.
Then, out of nowhere, Tord pulled out, and Tom was suddenly, horribly empty. He gasped and buckled his hips without meaning to, searching for friction, brain floating still in that soupy haze of arousal where shame didn’t exist.
“Want it that bad, huh?” Tord said, his breath short. He unbuckled his pants and his cock sprang out, its tip red and angry. He lined it against Tom’s swollen rim, before pushing most of its length inside in one big thrust.
Tom screamed. The stretch was as painful as always, like his organs were being crushed. He teared up from overstimulation. Sex with Tord didn’t have to feel good, though Tom always finds himself enjoying it, in spite of everything.
“F-fuck. You’re still so damn tight.” Tord sucked in a breath.
He started moving his hips, first in slow, languid motions, before his pace grew quicker and more erratic, almost frantic, hands gripping Tom’s hips as his balls slapped against the other’s arse. Soon he was fucking into Tom as if thrusting into a meat sack or a towel, chasing release, while Tom stared up into the patch of sky visible through the hole in the roof. He saw through teary eyes clouds lazily floating past, it was sunny outside, the bullet wound on his waist still hurt, and Tord’s fucking him on an altar. Pain and pleasure swirled together into a mush, and Tom wished he could melt away. All over Tord’s penis.
“I-I’m close.” Tord said as his thrusts grew shallow. He grabbed Tom’s cock and started pumping it—at least he had the decency to. Then Tom felt hot spurts against his insides, and came too, sobbing as he did.
He went limp.
“You know what I like about you, Tom,” Tord pulled out, his voice breathy, “I never have to worry about hurting you.”
It was true, he never did.
Tom closed his eyes.
He felt delirious, and not wholly from the afterglow of release. It was like his brain had suddenly been replaced with cotton.
A breeze blew past, and Tom got goosebumps all over.
“Tord, I’m cold.”
“Yeah, lemme just—” Tord went to pick up Tom’s stuff, “Wait, are you alright?”
Then everything went dark.
***
The sun was gone when Tom came to. He was back in Tord’s truck, head pressed against the window pane, his own jacket draped over himself. His neck ached from the awkward position, so he shifted to rest it against the seat instead, and let out a small groan. Tom felt feverish.
“Oh, you’re awake. Thank God.”
Tord said. His face was illuminated momentarily by a streetlamp zipping past. Tom realized then that they were going pretty fast, possibly as fast as Tord’s decrepit excuse of a truck could manage.
“You gave me a scare back there, just passing out like that. Had to carry you all the way back… Good thing you’re light like a cat.”
“I…I’m on fever.”
“Yep.”
“Where are we going?”
“Hospital.”
Tom felt heat emanating from the wound on his side. It was swollen, too, and oozing pus.
“…Sorry.”
Tord said, quietly.
“Why, what for?”
“For not doing a better first-aid, I suppose. Since the wound’s infected and all.”
“Oh.”
Tom’s voice was barely audible even to himself. His consciousness was slipping away again, so he easily drifted off to sleep.
The last thing Tom saw before he did was Tord turning his head to look at him, then back to the road again.