You Gotta Take The Burn
Title: You Gotta Take The Burn
Author: missninjastar
Pairing: Tom/Mark
Rating: PG
Word Count: 2,600
Summary: I didn’t agree to help Tom bleach his hair for the fun of it; I did it because he begged me to. He said knowing him, he’d miss bits at the back and end up with patchy hair and look like an idiot. I told him he already looked like an idiot. He told me I was an asshole and begged me some more. I caved because I rarely see Tom so dedicated to a cause.
That and I wanted to see him looking like a total dick in those plastic shower cap things.
Content/Warning: Swearing but that's it
Disclaimer: Don't know them, don't own anything but the plotline and the writing oooo
Author's Notes: Title sucks. This took me way longer than it should have. I originally started this in like, August when I bleached my hair, and hit a block with it. I literally didn't know how to finish it. I have now finished it. It's not that great, but I've had writers block recently anyway, so if it seems a little forced, that's why. I hope you enjoy it anyway, and I love to hear what you think of it<3
“Jesus Christ, Mark, my head is on fire.” Tom says from his chair by the window. He’s rubbing his palms against his thighs as he bounces his left leg. He looks pretty distressed, actually, but I just watch him, amused.
“This was your idea, dickwad.” I tell him, lying on my stomach on Tom’s bed, watching Tom. Tom throws me a dirty look, stands up and starts pacing the floor.
“I wanted blonde hair, that’s all. I didn’t expect my head to fry. I’ll be surprised if have any hair left at this rate. Fuck fuck fuck.” Tom strains. He starts to scratch at his arms, making frustrated and slightly pained noises.
“Don’t do that, c’mon. You’ll hurt yourself.” I say, turning over onto my back and stretching out more, still watching him. “If it hurts that bad just wash it off.”
“I don’t want orange hair, Mark. If I wash it off it’ll be a weird copper colour. I can’t handle having orange hair. I’ll get beaten up.” he stresses, continuing to pace, clenching and relaxing his fists over and over.
“If anyone tries to beat you up I’ll beat them up, how about that?” I ask, watching him.
He looks at me and scoffs. “I’m sure you’d do a lot of damage, you’re like a fucking weed.” Well, fuck you too then. Asshole. I look down at my body. I’m not that skinny. I could probably do some damage. “Thanks for the offer, though.” Tom amends, stopping to properly look at me. I look back up at him and Tom smiles slightly.
Tom starts to pace the room again and I sigh and grab a random magazine from his bedroom floor, roll back onto my stomach and begin to flick through it.
I didn’t agree to help Tom bleach his hair for the fun of it; I did it because he begged me to. He said knowing him, he’d miss bits at the back and end up with patchy hair and look like an idiot. I told him he already looked like an idiot. He told me I was an asshole and begged me some more. I caved because I rarely see Tom so dedicated to a cause.
That and I wanted to see him looking like a total dick in those plastic shower cap things.
Looking at him now, though, the hilarity of Tom looking like a total dick in the plastic shower cap he’s wearing is kind of cancelled out by the pained expression he’s also wearing.
Not that I care.
“You look like a dick in that plastic shower cap.” I tell him, turning the page of the magazine I’m not really reading. Tom stops pacing and momentarily stops looking pained. Instead he just looks confused.
“You’re an asshole, dude, seriously.” Tom says, starting to pace again.
“Why do you sound surprised? You knew I was an asshole when you met me.” I tell him, flipping another page even though I barely looked at the last one.
“I’m standing here, legitimately in pain, like, my head is burning and itching and tingling like my skin is dissolving or something, and all you do is sit there reading your stupid magazine and telling me I look like an asshole. Well fuck you, Mark. I don’t need you here.” Tom’s on the verge of yelling, and his pacing is getting faster and faster.
If it was anyone else, I would take that as my queue to leave, and be out that door before I got punched in the face, but it’s Tom. More than that, it’s Tom in pain, so I know he’s being an asshole purely because he’s in pain, and it’s him.
“You need a distraction.” I tell him. He stops pacing again and looks at me, still looking pissed off, but I know he’s listening. “If you’re not thinking about the pain you’ll forget it’s there. Like if you’re scared or nervous, you do something to distract yourself from being scared or nervous. Same thing with pain.”
“Why does that sound like bullshit?” Tom says, but he sits down on the bed next to me.
“No, dude, I swear. When I cracked both my heels, I was in so much pain. I mean, they gave me painkillers, but I could only take them every four hours, and around about three hours after you’ve taken one it starts to wear off, so I had an hour of agony between it wearing off and me being able to take my next dose. I used to beg my mom to let me have my next dose early, but she always said ‘distract yourself from the pain’. I tried it, and it doesn’t make the pain go away, it just makes you notice it less. I swear, during that month where I could barely walk I masturbated and played more video games then I did during my entire adolescence.” I tell him, moving to sit next to him on the edge of the bed.
“Are you suggesting I start jerking off to relieve myself of the pain?” Tom smirks at me.
This is a game we play. Any kind of sexual innuendo, or anything that can be made into a sexual innuendo, or basically anything that can make us look gay, becomes almost like a dare to us. I told him I jerked off to distract myself from the pain, so he’s asking if he should, right here, now, in front of me. It always starts off like this, and it’ll escalate until one of us backs down. It’s always incredibly gay. Tom usually wins. He’s always been the most fearless (and the gayest) one out of the two of us. He also doesn’t like losing, so Tom will keep pushing it as far it will go, no restrictions, no shame. And it’ll just get gayer and gayer, but Tom doesn’t ever care when people sometimes mistake us for a couple because of it, or when I start to get uncomfortable when he brushes his hand against my thigh teasingly, so I laugh and back down, and he smirks and his eyes shine with victory, and our friends laugh, roll their eyes, shake their heads, every possible reaction to it there could be, we’ve got. (Apparently some girls find it hot. Most guys, however, do not.)
But then I realize, there’s no crowd to entertain, no girls to impress. It’s just the two of us, in his stuffy bedroom that smells of peroxide.
He’s still smirking at me.
So I smirk back.
“Why not? I don’t want to see you in pain, after all.” I say, cocking my head to the side and looking him up and down in what Tom calls my ‘very own special sexy look’. It’s special because it’s me trying to check out someone in a sexy way, but in reality just looking like a pervert. The only times I’ve ever won this game is when I use that look, because Tom usually bursts out laughing at how retarded I look.
Tom’s not laughing.
“Why don’t you do it for me? I mean, I’m just in so much pain I don’t think I could handle having to be my own distraction as well.” He slowly lies back on the bed, chest exposed because he’s not wearing a top because of the bleach. “But if you were to do it for me, well, that’d sure be a nice distraction.”
That bastard thinks he’s gonna win.
I move quickly, straddle his hips with my knees and settle my ass on his groin. For a second, he looks shocked, but his smirk is back soon enough, and that’s not cool, why is that fucker smirking? It’s like he knows he’s won or something, that fucking-
I place my hands either side of his head, and lean on them, my body covering his. He’s still beneath me, arms at his sides, unmoving. His eyes are slightly wider because I’m making moves he’s never expect me too. It never really gets physical, more just promises of blow jobs and the occasional creepy arm stroke. It’s never got like this, so I know he’s shocked.
I push him one further, duck my head down so our faces are only a couple of inches apart. Still, Tom doesn’t say a word, but I catch his eyes and they’re bright, they’re daring me to do it. Go on, you fucker, I dare you.
And that’s when I see it.
The fucking plastic shower cap.
I start laughing. And I keep laughing. And I can’t stop laughing. And the laughs get heavier, shaking my whole body, and Tom’s smiling at me, bemused, and I still can’t stop laughing. I can’t even support my own head anymore, and my neck goes limp, but I end up head-butting Tom in the nose.
“Ow, fuck. You asshole, oh my god.” Tom says, hand darting straight to his nose, but he’s still smiling and I laugh harder, harder, until my whole body collapses on top of his. I can feel hear Tom laughing slightly right next to my ear, even though he probably doesn’t know what I’m laughing at. I laugh more as I hear the plastic of the shower cap crinkle next to my ear, to the point where I’m gasping for air, face mostly buried in Tom’s shoulder. “What was your plan, to distract me from the pain with more pain or something?” I take a deep breath, lift myself up slightly. Everything from my belly button down is flat against Tom, and I stare at him, chuckling still. He’s smiling at me, still unsure as to what I’m laughing at.
“The fucking shower cap, dude.” I tell him, and a laugh slips out with it. He looks at me, shocked.
“That’s what you were laughing at?” Tom asks me, and I start laughing again, but not as hard this time.
“You look like such an idiot.” I say, shrugging, my body still pressed against his.
“You’re a shitty distraction, Mark.” He tells me, lightly pushing me off him so he can get up. I roll sideways, my legs dangling off the edge of my bed and Tom walks over to his bedroom window. He sits on his windowsill and stares down the street.
“Tom, c’mon, you know I’m just fucking with you.” I say, turning my head to watch him.
“I know, man.” He sighs, still staring out of the window.
“So what’s wrong?” I ask, sitting up.
“Nothing, nothing. I’m just being an idiot.” He shakes his head, still not looking at me. I get up and walk the distance to Tom’s window, and lean against the wall next to it. Tom briefly looks up at me, the returns his gaze back down the street. So I wait. One, two, three, fou-
“Do you ever feel uncomfortable in your skin,” Tom asks, looking young and dejected, rubbing coyly at his forearm, avoiding eye contact, “like, you just don’t quite feel right no matter what you do? Almost like you're constantly faking it, even though you’re not. Not intentionally anyway.”
“Yeah,” I say. I slide myself down Tom’s wall to sit on the floor, crossing my arms in front of my chest and pulling my knees close to me, “yeah, I get that.”
Tom gets down from his windowsill, walks around me and sits down next to me, in almost the exact same position I’m in. “If I tell you something,” he starts, “do you promise me you won’t freak out and let it become a big thing that fucks up our friendship? Because I can’t-”
“Tom, c’mon, this is me you’re talking to.”
“Just, promise me, Mark.” He pleads.
“Of course I wouldn’t, I promise.” I assure him. Tom sighs and looks away from me, letting his head drop against the wall with a dull thud before he continues talking.
“The only times I don’t feel like a complete fuck up is when I’m with you. And I don’t know what it is about you, and I think that’s why I get so frustrated and confused; I can’t figure what it is about you that puts me at ease and makes me forget that I’m a complete let down to everyone in my life.” I don’t know what to say, so I say nothing. Tom’s still just a kid. He acts like a grown up, drinking, fucking, getting high, but he’s still just a kid. A kid who’s confused with who he is, who he wants to be, what he wants to do. A kid who’s still trying to deal with his parent’s splitting up, who still trying to figure how life works. A kid who bleaches his hair and plays fast guitar.
“I think,” he finishes, “I think you’re my distraction.”
He’s anything but a failure, definitely not a fuck up. He’s a kid. He’s a man, but he’s still learning. He still doesn’t know. Hell, even I don’t know yet.
“Hey, Tom?”
Two beats, and then “Yeah?”
“I still think you look like a dick in that shower cap.” I tell him. He laughs, visibly relieved. I’m not 100% sure what he was trying to tell me, or what I am to him, but that’s ok, because neither does he. He’s still confused. When he knows for sure, he’ll tell me. But until then, I’m the Mark to his Tom. And that’s who I’m happy being.
“Of course I do, it’s a fucking shower cap.” He says, standing up and stretching. “You know what? You were actually right; if you stop thinking about the pain you feel it less.”
“You can wash it off now; it’s been half an hour.” I say, noticing the time on Tom’s alarm clock. Tom throws his hands up in the air in celebration, and leaves for the bathroom. I get up to follow him, and call out “Dude, you’re going to look so weird with blond hair.”
“If it looks bad we can just dye it another colour. Ooh, what about blue?” He calls back, just as I get to the bathroom doorway.
“Fuck no dude, I’m never helping you dye your hair again because in the past half hour we’ve argued, dissolved your scalp, had emotional confessions, nearly dry humped and I almost broke your nose. One experience of helping you dye your hair is more than enough.” I say, leaning against the door frame. Tom laughs and takes of the plastic shower cap.
“How do I look?” He asks, turning in my direction. He’s standing there in nothing but his boxers, his hair plastered to his head from the bleach paste, which, funnily enough, is light blue.
He’s such a fucking idiot.
“Hot stuff; now wash the bleach off before you have no hair left.” I warn, and Tom’s eyes go wide.
“That can’t actually happen, can it?” He asks, looking slightly fearful.
“Wash your fucking hair, DeLonge.” I laugh, and Tom begins running the water in the bathtub.
“Hey Mark?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you, for you know. Being you.” Tom says, looking surer than he has all night. I smile at him.
“It won’t always suck this much.”
“Moment’s gone dude, let it go.” He says, bending over the bath and begins running water through his hair. “Hey man, wanna give me a hand? The bleach has gone stiff and it’s hard to pour the water and rinse it out at the same time.”
“Fuck off, Tom.”