Chapter Text
We forgive strangers because they owe us nothing; we forgive our friends because we cannot bear the cost of replacing them. Every friendship begins with admiration, yet admiration is merely envy with the grace to disguise itself. It is only with time that affection learns its true nature, and by then we are far too invested to distinguish devotion from resentment.
The studio was quiet in this cold November in London, and Tord had just remembered it all again.
Tom asked, “Was there ever a version of me you actually liked?”
Tord considered him carefully. Not the man before him, but the accumulation of every previous version. The child, the rival, the friend, the lover.
“No.”
At last, It was the most honest thing he’s ever said. They never saw him again after that.
Tord carried two things in his heart, that being a wish and a risk. The wish was London, and the risk was remaining in it. Every time he left his flat, he’d pray fate would grow tired of its cruelty. He imagined turning a corner, and finding them there as though no time passed at all. It is a foolish hope, as all hopes are, but he indulges in it all the same. Maybe Edd would laugh and bring him in for a hug. Or maybe Matt would smile and make polite conversation. Maybe Tom would finally look past the animosity and see the joy in reconciliation. Tord could tell himself as much as he could that all he wanted was closure. Truly, what he wanted, was forgiveness.
The studio he lived in now occupied the top floor of a converted warehouse in Blackfriars, all exposed brick and towering windows that overlooked the grey London skyline. Workbenches crowded one side of the room beneath shelves cluttered with wires, half-finished prototypes, and notebooks filled with hurried calculations. The other side was almost respectable: a worn leather sofa, an overflowing bookcase, some assortments of Moroccan rugs, and a kettle that rarely survived a week without boiling dry. It was neither a home nor a laboratory, but a failed attempt at being both. The room bore all the signs of habitation, yet none of comfort, as though its occupant had mastered the art of staying without ever truly settling.
Winter closed in, and Tord had finished sketching his next project, albeit slowly. He set the drawings aside and leaned back on the sofa, reaching for his phone more out of habit than interest. The weather promised rain, as it always did. Two unread emails sat neglected in his inbox, and an advertisement lingered from a search he scarcely remembered making. Beneath them was a profile notification that a viewer looked at his posts. Tord almost dismissed it before the name registered. Edd. For a moment, he simply stared at the screen. There was no message attached, no follow request, no indication that anything had happened beyond a brief act of curiosity. Yet he found himself reading the notification again, then a third time, as though some further explanation might reveal itself between the words.
Naturally, Tord opened Edd’s profile.
The photographs were typical, exactly what Tord was expecting. Birthdays, nights out, miscellaneous travels around the South. Humble fragments of a life that continued perfectly without him. He was several minutes into this pursuit before realising where the location of these posts were. London. London. London.
Tord sat back. By midnight he had convinced himself the discovery meant nothing. London is big, after all. By one o'clock he had checked the account three more times. The city outside his window glittered in the rain. Somewhere within it, possibly close, Tom was sleeping. He stared at everything longer than he would have liked to admit. It was an insignificant thing, being a small digital footprint left by somebody who had probably forgotten about it the moment they posted it. In any other context, he may have laughed at how unimportant this all is.
Edd. His smile in every photo, the signature brown hair that was always styled by Matt (perfectionism never leaves, really), and the monochromatic wardrobe he always had. Green. Life still treated him well after everything.
Tord scrolled slowly, telling himself he was only looking. Curiosity was an acceptable reason. Curiosity was harmless, and it did not admit to longing.
It wasn’t until he saw Tom.
The photograph was not particularly remarkable. Tom was half-turned away, amidst his own conversation, his expression still carrying that modicum of sarcasm and wit that could only be explained in his pessimistic nature. It was a version of Tom that Tord never even considered in that facade of bluntness. It was not that boy who challenged him at every given opportunity, or the boy whose sharp and dark eyes spent every conversation turning it into an argument. No. It was not the boy whom he had replied to a brutal question he’d already known the answer to in their old home. It was just Tom. Alive. Happy, perhaps. That sight unsettled him more than hatred could ever have. Tord Larsson had spent years preserving a memory of him and it was easier that way. Memories do not change. They did not grow older, did not laugh with other people, did not exist somewhere in the world without you. They do not think of you too. The location read London. Of course. It seemed everybody hadn’t actually left, they merely left their old selves behind. Tord questioned if that is any better than disappearing completely. For several minutes, he let the light of the phone glow on his face while he listened to the rain from outside his window and the distant noise of the city below. The city continued as it had, indifferent to those who suffered. Should he have left? Would that have been the sensible thing? Instead, Tord stood, putting on a dark wool trench coat and adjusting his hair. He told himself he was not looking for them, that he was not hoping for some impossible coincidence. He needed air. Yet, with his coat pulled tight and the door closing behind him, the same old boy stepped outside all the same.