like ash, nicotine. Tom buries his face in his coat, and smells nothing but the acrid stench of cigarette smoke, comforting and heavy.
it's a bad habit to have, really. Tom's not stupid enough to think otherwise. Paul's smoking his way to an early grave, dead-eyed and hollow-faced, cigarette always at the ready, and Tom should badger him about it, should push and pull and bare his teeth, remind Paul that he's all he got left- but these days, he's just tired. Exhausted.
he drowns himself in the drink, swallows liqueur like it's water- most days pass by in a haze, beer bottles collecting around him like a swarm, and Paul's always the one to pull him up out of it, hand on his nape like he's a badly behaving cat, and the thought of losing him too is terrifying.
but he's tired. he's exhausted. he's a man drowning, guilt a noose around his neck, and he can see the cracks in Paul too, can see them in the way his eyes go faded, the way he goes through packs like they're his only lifeline.
they're drowning, both of them. and Tom doesn't know how to get them above water, to drag them out of this slow-burn death.
there's a photo of Tord in Paul's wallet, edges worn and battered, and every time he sees Paul linger over it, he wants to hurl.
(grief is him, burning, killing Tord with his own two hands. it's him scratching the half-healed wounds on his arm open, again and again, just to feel like the ground is even beneath him.)
(grief is Paul, tired-eyed and shaky-handed, pulling him out of the trash, stubborn despite the pain. "he wouldn't want that," he says, like it fucking matters, because Tord is dead and Tom killed him, and he's drowning in guilt and grief and regret so thick is feels like tar.)
"i miss him," Tom admits, sometimes, when he's drunk enough to not remember it. he'll press his face into Paul's jacket, sockets half-lidded, knuckles white. "i miss him so fucking much."
Paul rests his hand on his neck. hums, voice rough and ragged.
"why'd he do that?" Tom asks, and it comes out wet, childish. "why'd he make me do that?"
Paul squeezes his neck. doesn't answer, won't ever, and when Tom cries, it burns. smoke in his eyes, ash in his mouth. Tord's blood on his hands, dried and brown, and so old it shouldn't still hurt.
Tom doesn't think it'll ever stop.
