"The hell...?"

 Tom lifted his head up, instant regret hitting him as he let his head drop back down onto the tattered and ripped couch cushion like a dead-weight, a loud and exasperated groan tumbling lazily out of his mouth.

His blue checkered dress shirt looked more worn than ever, slipping down his shoulders where it ripped, unbuttoned and possessing the heavily revolting smell of vodka. 

A moment of thought and pure concentration dawned upon Tom, a dreary smile creeping onto his dry and chapped lips.

There must have been another party. His favorite things the world had to offer. Certainly better than the invention of beverages designed to keep a person sober. 

With a drowsy sigh, Tom managed to lift himself up from the couch cushion, sluggishly rolling into the floor. His wrinkled shirt slipped further down his shoulder as he hit the ground with a grunt. His head pulsed with a growing migraine, fitting for the hangover climbing its way to him. 

Tom lay slumped on the floor for what seemed like decades, until he finally told himself, "I'm going to move" and lazily dragged himself to his feet, where his brain felt like mush and his legs felt the same; mushy and useless. 

And with a mighty and forced heave, he at last stumbled into the kitchen, ignoring the mess around him. If he weren't settled on the feeling of death, he might have taken notice to the broken glasses and stained floors- and might have even felt lucky there were no stray clothes littering the ground.

Tom shuffled over to the kitchen counter and tilted his chin upwards to the cupboard above him. As he reached up and threw open the cupboard, he let out another sigh, only now it became an agitated one. Of course there wasn't any liquor left. He'd have to go out and get some more; might be a good risk to take, leaving the house for once. 

 "It's going to be a while before I have another party..." Tom mumbled to himself, rubbing his forehead as a pathetic attempt to ease his migraine. 

To get things straight, Tom hated being sober. Hated it more than anything else. Ever since he 'graduated' high school and found out that alcohol was a thing, he always went to the college parties people would hold, and of course hold some himself. It was as if he felt so much more at home when he lifted his bottle of Smirnoff and knew he wouldn't remember whatever happened in the next five to seven hours. And he didn't. Which was why waking up from his drunken state was the worst part.

Tom groaned and shut the cupboard, sluggishly moving over to the kitchen table to grab his cell phone from the surface, lazily picking it up and examining its cracked screen before tapping the power button once. He mentally reminded himself not to make the screen brightness so- horribly bright- as he immediately shielded his eyes when the screen lit up.

After recovering from the sudden light, he rested his thumb on the screen, tempted to unlock the device, although his vision focused on the background of his lock screen. 

The picture showed three men, one strikingly tall with ginger hair whose smile seemed to consume the entirety of his freckled face, and the other being shorter, with caramel brown hair that stuck up like horns utop his head; he, on the other hand, wore a subtle smirk. And between them was Tom, looking more agitated than he could ever be, hands covering his face from the camera but not enough to where his face was still visible. As Tom's vision slowly began to function properly, he chuckled at himself. Then he looked down at the edge of the photo, where the screen told him 'to swipe to unlock'. At the bottom of the image was the taker of the photo, better visualized as a brunet with messy brown hair that covered his eyes and a bright smile, fingers up in a peace sign as his friends in the background expressed themselves.

As much as Tom wished, the alcohol was never enough to help him forget everything.

These friends of his had moved on, just as he had. Their close relationships throughout high school and college of course didn't last. 

He always imagined they had better lives than him; getting drunk half his life and spending the other half contemplating whether to drink again. 

However, he still had contact to one of these people. Wouldn't be his first pick- ever- but it was one of them. Tom tried to keep his distance, but was, of course, always dragged back to talking with him. 

Clearly ignoring that thought, Tom finally swiped the screen to the side as directed and typed in his lazily conjured pass-code. He didn't exactly need one, there wasn't anything important on his phone. So '1-2-3-4' seemed like a suitable pass-code for him. Easy to remember and hard to forget. If he forgot that then he would know that he'd forgotten how to count. 

Tom plopped down on the chair beside the table, resting his arm on its surface as he stared at the screen. It wasn't like he expecting any notifications from anyone but 'him', as the only thing that appeared was one missed call. He'd have to call back later; first priority seemed to be cleaning up his house. Which he was neither fond of or good at doing. Shoving messes under the couch or in the coat closet seemed to work like a charm.

The cell phone's power button was tapped again as another sigh escaped Tom. With the low amount of energy he had, he lifted himself back up out of the chair. A little procrastination wouldn't hurt, right? Tom nodded to himself in confirmation, heaving his tired limbs out of the kitchen, past the mess, and back to the couch. He slumped back onto the cushions like a magnet would to metal, choosing to let sleep chase his headache away rather than take any kind of medicine for it. Taking medicine fell onto his list of things he hated, traveling near the top, by far.

He hadn't even noticed how messy even he looked, with his dull brown hair tangled and abstract, his blue checkered dress shirt still threatening to slip from his thin shoulders, and his belt just barely keeping his black slacks from falling. Tom was clearly more than a mess; living his life this way. 

But no matter how low he lived, how lonely and unoccupied he seemed to be; he loved it. The drunkard loved the way he lived, free and happy, forgetting anything bad he'd ever done. If he'd ever done anything he would have normally regretted.

Although, the feeling of being lonesome still lingered deep in his heart, and he found it agitating whenever it decided to show its face to him again. Whenever it wasn't present, however, he was always content. 

As content as life would allow him to be. 

Tom closed his empty eyes and tried to let sleep consume him, and as said before, scare off his headache. Then he might have the energy to actually leave the house and do something productive. As fate would have it, that headache wasn't going to leave him. 

From where he was lousily positioned on the couch, he heard the obnoxious and startling ringing of his cell phone from the kitchen table. Tom growled under his alcohol-scented breath and refused to move, simply listening to the ringtone that droned on for the next minute.

Then it stopped.

He sighed in relief. But regretted it as much as he regretted sober moments.

The phone began to ring again, as the caller clearly wasn't ready to give up hope on the drunkard just yet. Tom hauled himself back up from the couch, feeling like a pot that had boiled over; even if he still looked like a slug after salt-recovery. 

He trudged into the kitchen and swiped up his agitating cell phone from the table, quickly accepting the call to stop the annoying ringing.

"Whatever you're going to tell me it better be good. Hangovers gotta be dealt with too, y'know." Tom muttered sarcastically into the speaker, trudging back out of the kitchen with his phone, sluggish in his travel back to the couch.

The other line presented the voice of his number one scapegoat, Torben Lovdahl.  Or, better known as just Tord. The absolute worst person to tell any secrets to. Now that Tom thought about it, he regretted telling Tord anything at all. 

"Another hangover? Do you ever stop drinking?" Tord's Norwegian accent sliced through Tom's thoughts and led him back to reality. The empty-eyed male sunk down into the couch cushion for what he hoped was the last time he had to leave it.

Tom scoffed, "You say that like you're joking about it. And I take momentary breaks. I drink about as much as you smoke. Which is a lot, last time I checked." 

He could hear Tord chuckle lightly on the other end, and he thought it to be sarcastic, as they were normally sarcastic to each other.

"Depends on which type of smoke you're talking about, Tom. Just saying 'smoke' is awfully vague in my case." Tord responded smoothly, and Tom could only imagine the smug look that may have been on the Norsk's face at the statement.

Instead of actually responding to Tord, Tom huffed. "Nevermind that. Why are you calling me?" He queried, as if hurriedly trying to change the subject.

 "Maybe I was just checking in. Making sure you haven't died from alcohol poisoning." Tord replied, with very little care or hope in his tone; gone scratchy over the phone signal.

"Uh huh. Well next time I suggest coming in person just so I can punch you for waking me up. Now let me deal with this hangover, Tord." Tom muttered angrily, not giving Tord a chance to respond as he hung up.

Tom stared down at his phone when he ended the call, an icon of Tord appearing, and a message indicating the action Tom made. Though the icon wasn't much of a representation of his Norsk companion, Tom believed that the idiotic smirk and slick appearance Tord had in the photo represented him enough, if not more than he deserved. 

The cell phone was powered off yet again as Tom slid it onto the coffee table silently, no sigh or huff leaving him. 

He'd have to admit that he believed Tord's warnings, just as he knew Tord believed his. Even if neither of them took these warnings in consideration- Tom still believed that they were fine, just happy in their own way.

Tom leaned back into his old couch, tilting his head back to gaze up at the unimpressive ceiling above. Now did the sad-sounding sigh leave him, as he had something on his mind that lowered any chance of a smile. 

Maybe he should throw another party; just for the fun of it. 

>>>

Woah a new book! I'm thrilled to be starting this one, as it is going to be much less slow paced like Scared To Speak was, and far more enjoyable to write! Tell me your thoughts on it so far, please! There's always going to be room for improvement here uwu